Old Wounds
by Little Polveir
Summary: Patrick opens up about his past to the only person whom he feels able to do so, and embarks on a journey towards finding the healing he needs. Definitely an M. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Patrick was sat at the kitchen table, the now very crumpled sheets of that morning's newspaper spread out in front of him. A decanter of whiskey stood on the table beside his now empty plate, which moments before, had held a slightly burnt bacon sandwich. The blackened frying pan lay discarded, half submerged, in the sink and a smoky haze lingered throughout the house. He skimmed the day's headlines nonchalantly, and alternated between draws on the cigarette in his left hand and mouthfuls of whiskey from the glass in his right. He had had a horrendous day: a breech delivery, a multiple-casualty accident at the dockyard, and the most hectic ante-natal clinic he could remember. All he wanted was to come home, be handed his dinner, say goodnight to his children, and then fall into bed with his beautiful wife. As soon as he stepped through the door, the realisation that the evening was to be far from his dream hit him like a tonne of bricks.

"Hello Patrick!" Shelagh had said as he walked through the door, "I'm glad you're not too late, I'm just off out to meet the girls…" He had felt his face fall, "How could I have forgotten?" he thought. "…and Timothy is staying round at Jack's house, his mother said she'll take them both to school tomorrow. You'll be alright looking after her won't you? ..." she said gesticulating towards the Moses basket on the other side of the room, "…I've just given her a feed, but if she gets hungry, there's some milk in the fridge, right must dash."

And with that she kissed him on the cheek and disappeared out of the front door.

"This is all I need" Patrick thought, "a night of babysitting."

Although he loved his daughter, he was not entirely comfortable with carrying out her day-to-day care. He would help where he could, but he liked to know that Shelagh was there to take over. When Timothy was a baby, he was working such long hours that he barely saw his son awake for the first year of his life. He certainly was never alone with him long enough to have to think about feeding and changing nappies. He sighed at this thought, and then choked as he remembered the times after his wife died; the times when he was always alone with Timothy.

Sombre in his thoughts, Patrick walked across the sitting room to the Moses basket where his daughter lay, awake but quiet. He put one finger into the little girl's hand and raised a weary smile as she tightened her tiny fist around it.

"Well, Mummy has looked after you, hasn't she?" he sighed, "But it looks like Daddy has to look after himself."

And so he went to the kitchen, and realising that Shelagh had not cooked him anything, attempted to make something palatable for supper.

The bacon sandwich, although a little crispier than he intended, filled him up, but the newspaper had failed to distract him from his thoughts and three large whiskeys and half a dozen Henleys had failed to cheer him up. If anything, the tobacco and alcohol had made him feel even worse than before. He was angry: angry with the day that he'd had; at Shelagh for leaving him alone; at Mrs Rose for having a breech delivery; at Trixie for calling him; with the disregard for workers safety at the docks; at the number of women in Poplar getting pregnant.

"I mean," he blurted aloud, thumping his empty whiskey glass on the table, "why the hell do those stupid bitches want to get pregnant for anyway?"

His breath caught in his throat at the sound of the words which had just left his mouth. His bottom lip began to tremble and tears began to leak from his eyes, running slowly down his careworn, stubble covered cheeks. He put his head in his hands, and was soon shaking and weeping uncontrollably. The thought of Shelagh's reaction had she heard what he had just said terrified him. His breathing became laboured and shallow.

"What have I done? What am I doing? What's wrong with me?"

Terrible thoughts coursed through Patrick's mind, thoughts that he had suppressed for so many years. Terrible thoughts that he had hoped he would never feel angry and emotionally unstable enough to allow them to surface again. But here they were, erupting from the depths of his sub-conscious with devastating force. He needed to stop this, he needed help. He began to reach for the decanter but as his fingers neared its delicate cut glass neck, a sound from the sitting room made him stop. The baby was gurgling to herself in her Moses basket, kicking and wiggling to the extent that her tiny hands and feet were visible above the sides. A gentle warming sensation began to flicker amongst the darkness deep inside him. He knew what he needed right now.

Patrick put down his whiskey glass, dried his eyes on the back of his hand and walked over to the Moses basket. He picked his daughter up and then, kicking off his shoes, flopped down onto the sofa. Holding his daughter with one hand, he positioned a pair of cushions against the arm of the sofa with the other and rested his head on them. He stretched out so that he filled the three seats and then laid her on his chest, her head resting on his collar bone. He spread his hands across her body and kissed the top of her head, gently blowing her wispy golden hair.

"I need to tell you a story little one," he said, stroking her back, "I must apologise, it is not the nicest story in places, but I know you won't judge me. You're the only one I can tell."


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm not a bad man," Patrick began, "but sometimes life throws you into a place where there is nothing good left at all. In places that terrible, you cannot stop yourself. You have no sense of good or bad, right or wrong, you just sink further and further into the depravity that surrounds you. That place for me, little one, was France, twenty years ago. I wanted an adventure. I was bored of the tedium which life being a GP in London endlessly brought. Evil had been spreading across Europe for nearly a decade, and war had broken out. Men were wanted to join and fight for freedom, so I signed up as an army doctor. And that, was the worst decision I have ever made in my life."

Patrick paused and looked down at the baby. She was awake, but had not made a sound; it was almost as though she was captivated by every word which came from her father's mouth. Patrick continued.

"I left home three days later, kissed Liz, my beautiful girlfriend goodbye, and travelled down to Southampton, all my worldly possessions in a cloth bag slung over my shoulder. At the port, all those who had been recruited were told to board an ancient leviathan of a container ship and we set off into a thick sea mist. The sea was rough, and I spent most of the crossing being sick over the side. We docked at a place called Le Havre, and we were met by a convoy of army vehicles and a bad-tempered Colonel. A roll-call was made and before I really knew what was going on, I found myself being given a bunk-up into the back of a jeep, with half a dozen other men and crates of supplies. There were no seats, so we had to sit on or between the crates. We must have travelled for six or seven hours like this, the roads were rough, we could barely move and every time we turned a sharp corner, things from the crates fell on top of us. Eventually, I arrived at the field hospital where I was to be stationed."

Patrick gave a small, pained laugh.

"A hospital, a hospital they called it, it was a goddamn hell hole!" he shouted, before realising that his daughter's ears were within a few inches of his mouth.

"Sorry!" he whispered. But she barely batted an eyelid just momentarily stretched her arms and legs then settled down again.

"Although it was part of an army base, the hospital building itself was little more than a glorified barn. Its corrugated metal roof leaked, the windows rattled in the wind, and parts of it flooded when it rained. We rarely had enough supplies to treat everyone who was sick and injured. When we were over-run with casualties, we had to build extra wards" he snorted "out of metal poles and tarpaulin. We built beds out of supply crates, and treated men on those. So many men, some of them little more than boys, died there. There were so many that I couldn't save. I was there as a doctor, that is what I was supposed to do, but I couldn't. So many I would have been able to save, anywhere else. But not there, those men were doomed to die the moment they set foot in France. And, one night, I very nearly joined them."

Patrick's breathing became shallow and strained again, he felt his hands shaking.

"One night the army base where the hospital was located was attacked by German soldiers. Hundreds of them, armed to the teeth with rifles and bayonets. Most of us were asleep, and the few men who were stationed to protect the base were soon overwhelmed. My room was in the Officer's quarters and I was shaken awake by Sergeant Major Sudbury-Stewart.

'Get up and get out! We're overrun' he shouted, throwing me a rifle and a handful of bullets before running out the door.

He was a terrifying man, I remember. Well over six foot five, built like a brick outhouse, with a ruddy complexion, an enormous greying moustache, and a voice like a foghorn. The young Privates used to quake in fear at the sight of him. But at that moment, he was the one quaking with fear."

Patrick paused.

"I never saw him again. I don't think they ever found his body. I think he had about seven children."

He swallowed the lump in his throat, biting his bottom lip, trying not to sob.

"Being a medic, rather than a frontline soldier, I had only ever fired a rifle once in the brief 'training' we received when we arrived. And it is really easy to hit a painted target on a tree. Trees don't want to kill you."

He felt an icy shiver course through his entire body.

"At that moment all my instincts were telling me to run, to run as fast as I could away from the advancing Germans. But that was the one thing I could not do, I had to fight. I had to fight for my life, and the lives of my colleagues. I had no choice."

He could not stop himself from crying now; he could not keep his emotions contained any longer. He sobbed uncontrollably, holding onto his daughter for support.

"And that was when I killed. I killed four German soldiers that night. They were so close, if each of them had not hesitated for a second, I would have been the dead one. I saw the whites of their eyes. I saw the light drain from those eyes as my bullets hit them. I felt their blood hit me in the face, soaking me, staining me, marking me guilty of the crime I had committed. The last one looked no more than sixteen, a child in a man's world. I shot him once, but my hands were shaking so much that the bullet did not hit him where it would have killed him instantly. He had a round belly, and the bullet carved through him, left to right. He screamed and staggered, blood and intestines pouring from the wound. I aimed at him again, but my rifle was empty. So…"

Patrick's voice trembled, his breathing so laboured he could hardly speak.

"…I bludgeoned him to death with the butt of my rifle. I knocked off his tin helmet, and then continued to hit him until, until, until I heard his skull crack. Two more blows and he stopped moving. I, a Doctor killed a boy, some poor man's son. That is not what Doctors do. He was barely older than Tim, and I killed him."

Patrick sat bolt upright, look of terror on his face and screamed.

"I killed him."

The baby on his chest whimpered. Patrick rocked her gently.

"In war, you lose all sense of right and wrong. On a battlefield, you must do all you can to survive. That is the only thing you think, I must survive. I must live."

He continued to sob for a moment, but stopped at the slight of his daughter smiling up at him. He tried to smile back, but could not do so.

"War does terrible things to a man," he continued, "Terrible things. Things that no-one should have to experience. Especially not you, I'll make sure of that."


	3. Chapter 3

"Somehow, a few others and I managed to escape the base that night. All our vehicles had been destroyed or taken by the Germans, so after a night lying low in a nearby wood, the survivors, with nothing but the clothes we stood in, marched the twenty-five miles to the nearest town. It was a hot summer's day, the sort of day that in any other situation you would go on a picnic, or to the beach, or eat ice creams in the street or drink cold beers sprawled on an inviting patch of grass. But we had nothing to eat or drink that whole day, aside from a few mouthfuls of water lapped up from a muddy stream. By the time we arrived on the outskirts of town we were barely able to stand.

The local priest, who it turned out, had used his position of trust to win favour with the local German commander, then passed information to the British and French, had heard of the attack on the base. He met us outside the town with a horse and covered cart, and told us to climb aboard. We had no idea whose side he was on at this time, but, delirious with heat exhaustion perhaps, we all clambered aboard. He hid us in the crypt of his church and saw that we were fed, watered and as comfortable as we could be. All I wanted was some clean clothes, the smell of stale sweat, dirt and the blood of German soldiers rose from my tunic. It was nauseating."

Patrick paused. "Nauseating" he thought, "No, nauseating was nowhere near the right word." He continued aloud

"Repulsive, revolting, disgusting, sordid, abhorrent, need I say more, little one, no adjective can describe that smell, that feeling. The constant reminder that not only had I killed, but also had come within inches of being killed."

He shuddered.

"We were down in that crypt for four days before we were picked up and taken to another army base about three hours away. After we had washed, changed and eaten, we were told by the officers at the new base that they had decided to let us have a night off before recommencing duties the next morning. The younger Privates thought this was a fabulous idea, but Captain Jennings and I, being slightly older, were more cynical. What was one night off to a man who had just cheated death by inches? But despite our cynicism, we joined the young Privates in a café in the village."

Patrick readjusted himself on the sofa.

"The cobbled village square where the café was located was the sort of place where, if I could, I would have spent several long, lazy days, with a coffee or a beer, just sitting, watching the world go by. There were shady trees, flower boxes, a pretty fountain and shops and cafés with stripy awnings. Although we knew that the village was not yet under German control, there was a fear in the air, we eyed everyone with suspicion, and the locals reciprocated. We sat down at a table in the back of the café, deciding that it would be safer if we were away from the windows. We ordered wine, as the café had run out of beer. It was just local Plonk, quite dry and fairly strong, but pleasant enough. None of us had really drunk wine before, and, knowing no better, we were drinking it at the same rate that we would have drunk a pint of beer. As the evening wore on, we became more and more drunk. The young Privates were completely out of it, and even Captain Jennings and I had got carried away. And then the women arrived."

Patrick rubbed his eyes and then his forehead.

"Why, why did I do that?" he said.

"A group of women arrived in the café. Although my vision was hazy with drink, I could tell immediately that these were not reputable women of the village. They wore high heels, silk stockings and fitted dresses that were short enough to flash their lace suspender belts with barely enough material in the bodice to contain their voluptuous bosoms. They saw us lurking in the back of the café and we must have been sitting targets. They sidled over, swinging their hips and tossing their hair seductively, beckoning to us. Captain Jennings and I tried to ignore them, but the young Privates, naïve and full of drink, were enchanted. The women sat on their knees, and began kissing them, and gradually one by one, the women led them away from the table and up a wooden spiral staircase. Captain Jennings, who was a few year older than me I remember, was happily married, and very uncomfortable in the situation, so necked the rest of his wine and staggered out of the café. Seeing Captain Jennings, my last line of defence, leave, one of the women left Private McDonald, who she had been sharing with a curvaceous red-head, and came and sat on my knee. I flinched as she started touching my face; her long fingers exploring every ridge and contour.

'So' she said in a deep, husky voice in my ear, "What is a 'andsome young Englishman like you doing 'ere tonight?'

Her English was perfect, though heavily accented. I wondered at the time how a prostitute in a tiny French village had learned English so well. Looking back now, I expect she bedded many an English soldier, before and after me. I could not answer her, I do not know why. The next thing I knew she was kissing me, caressing my lips with her tongue, forcing my mouth to open wider, and her tongue in deeper."

Patrick lifted his daughter off his chest, so that he could look straight into her bright blue eyes.

"Promise me, that your first time is in your own bed, and that the man you are with loves you, and you love him. That way you will not regret it, as I regret my first time."

The little girl looked at her father. Patrick, of course, knew that she had no idea what he was talking about, but he hoped she would heed his warning when the time came. He kissed her nose and then replaced her on his chest.

"Something made me climb up those spiralled stairs with that woman that night. It wasn't her beauty. Yes, she was brunette, with sparkling eyes and exquisite curves, but the only beauty I had eyes for was my Liz, the girl who I had left behind in London, the girl I eventually married, Timothy's mother. Was it the drink? Perhaps! I'd certainly had plenty that night. After the wine, one of the Privates, Thompson I think it was, had returned from the bar with a bottle of Calvados. In our eagerness to try it, we had knocked it back with great force, and unpleasant consequences. Several of us were sick across the room. No, little one, I know why I did what I did that night.

'C'mon Pat,' Private Davies, a cocky Welsh lad, had shouted to me as he headed up the stairs accompanied by a leggy blonde, 'we could be dead tomorrow, live for the moment and all that.'

These words, the events of the past week and being stupid with drink, made me suddenly lose all sense of sanity or morality. I'd cheated death by the skin of my teeth once, how many more times would I be lucky? I could be dead tomorrow, I thought, what on earth have I got to lose? So I put a few francs into the brunette's cleavage, and she took me upstairs into a small dark room.

There was a bed in the middle of the room with blankets strewn across it. Once I was there, I began to regret listening to the cocky Taffy. But it was too late to go back on my decision. She had removed her clothes with alarming speed, discarding them on the floor. She beckoned me towards her but I was rooted to the spot. Her nakedness shocked me. I think I may have blushed. Examining a female patient and seeing a woman like this were two very different things. When I didn't move, she preceded to pull me onto the bed. It had an old, wrought iron frame, it creaked terribly and the mattress sagged underneath our weight. She began kissing me and rubbing her hands all over me, dispensing with my tunic as fast as she'd removed her dress. When I did not reciprocate, she grabbed my wrists and placed my hands first on her breasts, then between her legs. Everything felt so wrong, the last thing I could do was enjoy it. This is not how I wanted to be intimate with a woman. I had always imagined that my first time would be magical. Unperturbed, she began to undo my trousers, pulling them to my knees with one, well practised manoeuvre and reached inside my underwear. She then stopped, and looked disappointed.

My heart had skipped several beats as she touched me. I had had to stop myself gasping.

'Oh, do you not love me?' she said in mock innocence, 'Do you not like this?'

I could not respond. I did not know how to respond. I did not need to respond.

'Per'aps you are nervous,' she said almost immediately, 'I will 'elp you, do not worry, my little soldier.'

And help me she did. She knew exactly what to do, where to touch. She knew exactly how to get what she wanted out of me, and I suddenly lost all my ability to control myself; she was fully in control of me. She pinned me to the bed, guided me inside her, and she began making noises I never knew a woman could make. I was desperate for it to end. She eventually rolled off me and I breathed a sigh of relief.

'There, little boy' she drawled with mock affection, stroking my chin, 'That was not so bad was it?'

I think I must have fallen asleep immediately, I don't remember answering her, or anything else for that matter, until I woke up the next morning, with a hangover from hell and a tongue which resembled old boot leather. I looked over to the other side of the bed and she was gone. I picked up my clothes, dressed and left through a back entrance in fear of being charged for a nights stay. I realised after I got back to the base that she had stolen the money which I had left."

Patrick stroked his daughter's back.

"I never even knew her name." He allowed a small smile creep across his face. "You make sure young lady, that you always know with whom you are having the pleasure!"

The smile then melted from his face.

"I regretted that night as soon as it was over, though I did not realise the worst consequence of the decision I made that night until many years later, on my first wedding night. I had carried my beautiful Liz, the girl who waited so long for me, up to our bedroom. We lay beside each other in our bed, holding each other, kissing like we had never kissed before. I remember rolling onto her, and seeing the look on her face. She looked worried.

'I don't know what to do,' she'd said innocently, 'do you?'

'Don't worry' I'd said.

After we had made love, she fell asleep in my arms. I could not sleep though. My mind was racked with guilt. Liz had waited for me, but I had not waited for her. She never knew another man, but I had known another woman. And a woman of ill-repute at that! I had gained the knowledge of women by illicit means. Liz loved and trusted me enough to allow me to take her virginity; she thought she was taking mine too. That lie pained my heart, but I never told her, I could not tell her."


	4. Chapter 4

The baby, who had been so silent, suddenly began to cry.

"Hey, little one, what's the matter?" Patrick said, looking a little worried. Unlike Shelagh, he still did not speak fluent baby. He checked her nappy and found it was dry, so he wondered if she was hungry. He put his finger to her mouth and she began to suck.

"I think that answers my question," he cooed softly.

Patrick stood up and carried his daughter into the kitchen. As he warmed the baby's milk in a bowl of hot water, he rooted around in one of the cupboards and pulled out Shelagh's jar of Horlicks. One handedly, and rather expertly he thought, he warmed some milk for himself and made a large mug of Horlicks. He had not had Horlicks since he was a small child, but he knew it was a favourite of both his wife and the residents of Nonnatus House, and it always appeared when someone needed cheering up or had had a hard day. He decided to test the theory.

Making two journeys, he got himself, his daughter, the milk and the Horlicks back to the sofa without any major disasters. He propped the baby up in the crook of his left arm, and fed her, whilst drinking his Horlicks from the mug in his right hand. He had quite forgotten how good it tasted.

"If Mummy could see me now, she would be so impressed with my multi-tasking! Though I'm not sure how impressed she will be when she finds out that she will have to share her Horlicks from now on!"

When she had finished her feed, Patrick made sure she was comfy, drained the last dregs of his Horlicks and settled down on the sofa again, and resumed his story.

"I spent another six months in France, and then spent the next two years of the war being sent around Europe to wherever the Allied forces needed a medic. Firstly I was sent to Belgium, and then the Austrian border. Oh those mountains. They would have been so beautiful had they not been full of enemy soldiers waiting to gun us down. Finally I ended up in Italy. By this time, I had been in Europe for three and half years, and although I was lucky in that I never found myself as close to death as that night in France, the suffering I saw was enough to kill even the strongest of men. Day after day, week after week, month after month, the endless hoards of injured men, dying men we could not save."

Patrick paused. He felt his lip begin to tremble again, his hands were shaking against his daughter's body, and tears began to well up in the corner of his eyes.

"One night, thirty or forty men were brought in, victims of an attack on their convoy earlier that day. My colleague Frank Higginson and I were the only two medics on duty that night, and there were a couple, no, three nurses, if you included Matron Sanderson, who we had to get out of bed. The treatment centre was already fairly full, so those with less severe injuries we treated on the floor in the corridor. Most of them sported typical battle injuries, gunshot wounds, embedded shrapnel, wounds that look unpleasant but could be treated. But then I saw those two men. One was probably in his forties, the other probably about twenty. They were barely alive by the time they reached us. I had never seen injuries like the ones they suffered, at least not on a pair of bodies belonging to men who were conscious."

Patrick wiped tears from his eyes.

"The older one had had both his legs blown off and a large chunk of his abdomen was missing. His face was peppered with shrapnel, and his right eye had been taken clean out. The younger one, oh good God, that poor boy! Half his skull was missing, his brain exposed. There was a hole the size of a rugby ball in his chest, shattered remains of ribs lay on his exposed organs. His right leg was severed six inches below the pelvis. And yet they were alive, breathing, talking."

Patrick balled his hands into fists, his knuckles white, he squeaked and whimpered. His whole body shook.

"They were alive!" he screamed.

"I didn't know what to do, where to start. I began to try and patch them up. I tried to make them as comfortable as I could. I cleaned their wounds, tried to stem the bleeding, and removed the shards of shrapnel. But it was no use I could not stop the bleeding. They became weaker and weaker, they screamed in pain, but they were alive, conscious, breathing. And then, Frank came in. Frank is older than me, and had been an army medic since just after he qualified. He pulled me away from the table where the two men were lying.

'Patrick, you can't do anything for them. You must make their passing as swift as possible.'

I looked at him dumbstruck.

'What? No, I can't, that's…"

'The kindest thing you can do.'

'That's murder.'

'Patrick, you must make difficult decisions in these situations' he said so matter-of-factually that it hurt me 'There is enough suffering around us, let's not create any more.'

I could not respond to him.

'Come on Patrick, I'll do one, you do the other.'

He drew up two syringes full of morphine. He handed me one and moved towards the table.

'Do it,' he said, 'You're a good Doctor, and they need your help. That's what Doctor's do, they help.'

I took a deep breath, and plunged my syringe into the older man's arm. Frank did the same to the young lad. They lived a few minutes, and then slipped away.

Frank saw me shaking.

'Let's take them to the mortuary, I'll write up the death certificates and the letters to the next of kin. Go and get some rest, you look like you need it.'

I went back to my quarters and broke down. I cried for hours, I hid under my blanket shaking, like a frightened child. What did I do that night? I had just committed the worst crime a Doctor could commit. I killed one of my patients. Yes, I knew, deep in my heart that I couldn't save him, and that he would succumb to his injuries. But I murdered him. I know, I had killed before, but killing an enemy in battle, and killing an ally, someone you were supposed to be caring for, that was different. I had to kill those Germans, it was my duty, a terrible duty yes, but I had to do it. I didn't have to kill that man. I could have patched him up, given him something for the pain and left him to sleep. But I didn't."

Patrick held his daughter tighter to him, kissing her forehead. Tears rolled down his nose, onto her head.

"When I eventually slept, my dreams were plagued by images of death, blood, shattered bodies, piercing screams. I had had nightmares ever since that night in France, but nothing like the one that night. I woke up screaming and shouting, jerking like I was having a fit or something. I don't know how long I had been screaming, but long enough to alert both Frank and Nurse Chesterton, who ran into my room. They restrained me and I remember Frank saying he was going to give me a sedative. Frank and the camp commander decided to relieve me from duty for a few weeks, and so I was sent forty miles behind the front line. A few weeks away from duty revived my spirits a little, but as soon as I was considered fit, I was sent back to the hospital. Within three days, the nightmares which had barely occurred while I was away remerged with devastating force. I woke up in cold sweats, screaming, every night. I began seeing things, bodies, blood, death wherever I looked. I had migraines, I kept fainting, I barely ate or drank, I lost so much weight."

Patrick patted his stomach.

"Hard to believe I know, but I used to be quite trim. By the time I lost the weight, I looked half-starved. By this point, my colleagues began to notice that things were not well. Frank tried to get me to talk, but I couldn't say anything. I just ended up screaming, rocking in my chair and breaking down in tears whenever he mentioned it. Frank sent for a psychiatrist to come and assess me. I don't remember anything about the assessment, I was so distressed, but for the week after, I was confined to my room. I went stir crazy in that week. I was climbing the walls, trying to get out. I screamed at the door every time I heard someone's footsteps, begging to be let out. But no-one came. I never left so alone in my life."

He paused.

"No-one came, no-one."

He wiped a fresh batch of tears from his cheeks.

"When someone eventually came to see me, I was told that I had been discharged from the army with immediate effect. I was told to pack up the few possessions which I had left, and prepare to be sent back to Britain. I was devastated. I felt weak, useless, unwanted. The journey back to England took nearly four days, and when I arrived at Southampton, I expected to head to the train station, and then get the first train to London. But I was met by a group of medics and nurses.

'Dr. Patrick Turner?' one of them said.

'Yes, how can I help?'

'Please come with us.'

I was escorted to an army car and was helped into the back of it. I was sat between two burly men, I felt like a criminal.

'What's happening?' I asked 'Where are we going?'

'Did they not tell you?' one of the nurses said blankly, 'You're being admitted to Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital, it's near Birmingham, we'll be there soon, don't worry.'

Psychiatric hospital! Those words stabbed me harder than any bayonet.

'What? No! I can't go there. There's nothing wrong with me. Let me out! Please, let me out!'

The two men either side of me grabbed onto me, restraining me against the back of the seat. I was admitted to Northfield in April 1945 and was diagnosed with War Neurosis. War Neurosis, battle fatigue, shell-shock, call it what you like, they did not really know how to treat me, or any other of the poor men there. Away from the horror, I was able to bottle up everything I had seen. I could try to forget everything. I spent five months there and when I was considered cured, I was discharged and I moved back to London. I suppose I was cured from the nightmares and the visions of the horror which plagued me in Italy, but the pain of my experiences could never be cured. It was still there, just hidden. I returned to work in December 1945 and soon after I began to rebuild my life. My GP career was going from strength to strength, Liz and I finally married in the autumn of 1946, and then, eighteen months later, Timothy was born."

Patrick paused and smiled.

"I've never told Timothy this, but when he was born, he made me feel happier than anything else in the world had ever done. He was beautiful. Sister Evangelina delivered him, and when she handed him to me, I could not believe he was ours. Finally, after all the pain, the hurt, the long years of separation which we had both been through, we were a family. I hoped, more than anything I had ever longed for, that this perfection would last until the day I died."

And with that thought, he broke down again.


	5. Chapter 5

"Liz was the most beautiful girl I'd ever met. Her long dark, curly hair framed her fair oval face. Her dark, almond eyes sparkled. She had a wonderful figure and lovely legs, and that smile! But I loved her most for her caring nature, her compassion, her patience, her gentleness, her ability to do or say exactly the right things in every situation. She was wonderful wife, and a wonderful mother. She was my world."

Patrick sniffed, trying to stifle a sob.

"My beautiful Liz was diagnosed with breast cancer. She fought the disease so valiantly. She never complained when the treatment made her ill, or when she was so weak she could barely stand. She looked after Timothy and me selflessly until the very end. As she grew weaker, and the oncologist had given us the dreadful news that all he could offer was palliative care, I wanted her to be admitted to hospital, but she refused.

'If I'm to die, Patrick,' she said, 'I want to die here, at home, where I know I am safe, surrounded by those I love and all the happy memories which I have had here.'

One night, a few weeks later, she gently slipped away. She had been falling in and out of consciousness for most of that day, and I was sat by our bed, too frightened to go to sleep. She opened her beautiful almond eyes, then whispered. '

Goodbye Patrick.'

And then she was gone. I was her GP and her husband. I should have spotted the symptoms before I did. I could have helped her. I had to tell Timothy the next morning. How do you explain to an eight-year-old that their mother has just died?"

Patrick paused, his lip trembling.

"I could not bring myself to grieve until after the funeral, I had to be strong for Timothy. I used to sit in the car, staring out of the windows for hours at a time, like a sheepdog without his sheep, as Timothy reminds me. Bringing him up by myself was so hard. The Sisters and nurses at Nonnatus House supported us in every way that they could, asking after us, sending bread and cakes home in a paper bag, and your mother, Sister Bernadette as she was then, was always particularly kind to both of us. She was always so good with children."

He smiled and stroked his daughter's back.

"It was during this time that I began to get to know her. I had already known her for many years, working alongside her at the ante-natal clinics and during complicated deliveries. But things happened, things changed. I don't know whether I fell in love with her first, or the other way round, but for many months, I don't think either of us could comprehend what was happening. She, still a nun and bound by her vow of chastity and me, a widower almost old enough to be her father falling in love with each other. Was it really happening? Although she was hidden behind her vows and a monastic habit, I found that I could not help looking beyond those barriers. I could not just see a nun. I saw a woman, an intelligent, kind, compassionate, and, dare I think it, beautiful woman. Her eyes, like fine Topaz, sparkled, providing a light in the darkest of places in my life. Then one day, I could not contain my feelings for her any longer. She had injured her hand doing the three-legged race with Timothy, and I offered to look at it for her. But then I kissed it. I kissed a nun's hand."

He allowed himself to grin. "I am naughty aren't I?"

He continued, with a more solemn tone to his voice.

"Not long after this, she was diagnosed with TB, and sent to the sanatorium for treatment. I drove her there, with a terrible feeling of dread. I feared it would be like it was with Liz. I blamed myself again; I should have spotted her symptoms earlier, like I should have spotted Liz's. I could not lose another woman I loved. I wrote to her during her treatment, trying to express my passionate feelings for her, without trying to frighten her. And I suppose, as they say, the rest is history. She renounced her vows and, after a few hiccups caused by an unexploded bomb and Pollio, we married. We barely knew each other, but we couldn't be more certain. We soon learned much about each other, but I hoped that I would never have to tell her anything about what I have just told you."

He paused, chewing his bottom lip.

"Unfortunately, your mother found out about my treatment at Northfield, in the worst way possible. Thinking we were unable to have children together, we were being interviewed by an adoption agency. I remember that conversation as clearly as if it happened yesterday. Everything was going so well, your mother was so happy, so excited. But then, the representative dropped a bombshell.

'What occupied you between the period April 1945, to December of that year, Dr Turner?' she said coldly, 'your detailed service and work history, there seems to be, an omission'

'Ah, ah, I was injured.' I replied, my voice shaking.

'Could you be more specific?'

'I prefer not to,' I growled, I felt my anger rising. I glared at her.

'Patrick' your mother said. I could not see the look on her face, but from the tone of her voice I could tell she was scared.

'I don't see how this is relevant,' I began to plead, begging the representative to not head down the road which I knew she was turning into.

'You were discharged from the army.'

'You must understand, it was the end of the war, I, I, I was medical corps, trying to save lives at the front, I…'

And then she said it.

'You were an inpatient at Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital for five months while you were being treated for war neurosis.'

I couldn't look at your mother, I knew hearing those words would have destroyed all her hopes and dreams. 'I was worn out, there was, too much death, I recovered, I am recovered.'

Your mother, bless her wonderful heart, tried to defend me. 'We've both needed great strength,' but the representative must have read her ignorance of my diagnosis all over her face.

'We believe a child should be placed in a home where truth and trust are central to that home.'

Truth and trust. Your mother trusted me, but I had not been truthful with her. I knew at that moment I had failed her. She was angry with me, and rightly so. '

How could you not tell me?' she'd shouted at me after she had let the representative out of the door. She rounded on me as she said it, drawing herself up to her full height. I knew, after what she had been through, that that this revelation would have shattered her. We knew so little about each other when we married, but I knew she had put all her trust in me. I had just dashed that asunder. She tried to make me talk, but I couldn't. I tried to form words of explanation, but she retorted with.

'How can you treat others, when you so clearly cannot treat yourself?'

Those words stabbed me to the core of my being. She had no right to say that, how could she when she knew so little? That was the last straw; all I could do was run from the room in tears like a frightened child. I didn't dare look back at her. I knew her face would be too painful for me to look at. I knew it would be stained with the hurt and pain that I had caused. I ran upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind me, and hid. I curled up, foetus-like, facing the wall, crying under the covers, hiding from the hurt that I had caused. Painful memories which I'd suppressed for nearly fifteen years erupted inside me. It had been so long since I was in a place so dark. I had to be alone. I could not face anyone. I don't know how long I had been there when I heard her open the door, slip into the room and then lie under the covers behind me. She did not say anything, and she did not make any attempt to look at me. Perhaps she couldn't face me. Perhaps she knew I couldn't face her. I continued sobbing, trying to ignore her presence. Then I felt her hand on my stomach, her delicate arm round my waist. I flinched but didn't pull right away. She didn't say or do anything. After a few minutes I felt her chin rest on my shoulder and her golden curls brush my face. I stopped crying. 'Perhaps she doesn't hate me' I thought. But still I couldn't face her, and certainly couldn't talk to her. '

Patrick,' she whispered after a while, 'I love you.'

This made me start crying again. I knew she was trying to comfort me, but she was just making me feel worse. Why would a beautiful, innocent, young girl want to love a man like me? A man, broken, tainted, destroyed. I had no right to be loved by such a girl. She stopped talking, but carried on holding me. She knew that I wasn't ready to talk. As we lay there, and I contemplated the afternoon's events, I knew I had to say something to her. But what? I tried forming sentences in my head, but nothing but garbled rubbish materialised. Eventually I managed to spit out,

'I saw terrible things! Things no man should see, or do. I couldn't cope anymore. They sent me home.'

I cried harder than I think I'd ever cried, even after that night in Italy. Your mother held me tighter and I felt her press a gentle kiss to my ear, but she did not say anything. I knew that she would not be happy with what I'd said, or not said, but I think she accepted that that was all I was going to say at that moment. She got up, said something about going to start making dinner, and left the room."

Patrick paused again.

"She never pressed me directly on the subject again. There were times in the following days and weeks when she knew I was upset, and she would offer a listening ear or shoulder to cry on, but I could never bring myself to tell her any details. I wish I could tell her. I wish I could help her understand. I need closure, but without closing the door. That hasn't got me anywhere. I need to face those fears. I need to remove the evil from my mind, replace, those terrible memories with, something, beautiful," he said, an idea popping into his head, a smile creeping over his face.

"Oh little one, I love you so much, thank you!" he said kissing her cheeks, "that's what I need to do. I, no we, need an adventure!"

He grinned, plans and ideas forming in his head. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, and realised what that Shelagh would be home soon.

"We better go to bed," he said, "There is a lot to do tomorrow."


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning Patrick woke with a spring in his step. He bounced down the stairs, waltzed across the living room and sauntered into the kitchen to where Shelagh was making breakfast. Creeping up behind her, he grabbed her hips, spun her round and planted a kiss on her lips, his hands finding their way up her back, round the back of her neck and into her hair.

"Patrick," Shelagh half-giggled when they broke their embrace, "what are you up to?"

"Ah, it's a beautiful day, you are a beautiful woman, and I am a happy man" he replied dreamily, "ooooh eggs on toast, excellent!"

Patrick's cheerfulness carried on throughout the day, nothing could dampen his excitement about the plan he had plotted the previous evening. He re-arranged his morning rounds so that he could make a detour to the Passport Office to collect the forms for the travel documents that he thought they would need. The young girl at the office seemed rather confused but slightly intrigued as to why a family of four would suddenly need documents for everywhere he wanted, but she was helpful and found all Patrick required.

When he returned to the surgery he set about making a series of telephone calls. He began with a ferry company, inquiring about the details of their night crossings that weekend and provisionally booked a cabin for that Sunday night from Southampton. He then telephoned Chummy, inquiring whether he could borrow some of the Cub's camping gear. Next, he spoke to three other local GP's, to arrange cover for his patients and the ante-natal clinic. Finally he called Nonnatus House. He spoke firstly to Sister Julienne, telling her that he had been able to get some time off to go on a family holiday. She seemed thrilled, though perhaps, he thought, she would have been less thrilled if she found out about his small white lie. He then asked to speak to Jenny to see whether she would be willing to run Poplar Choral Society in Shelagh's absence. She readily agreed, and would ask Cynthia to act as temporary accompanist.

Back at the surgery, he filled in his and the children's forms, his hands shaking so much with excitement that he wondered whether there would be any hope of the Passport Office being able to read what he had written. With all this in place, he re-arranged his afternoon rounds so that he could meet Chummy to collect a tent, three sleeping bags, a camping stove and a nest of saucepans from the Community Centre, before he went home.

Patrick arrived home to find Timothy sat at the table putting the finishing touches to a new Airfix model and Shelagh sat on the sofa, the baby just finishing her feed.

"Hello Dad!" said Timothy, "how has your day been?"

"Tickerty-boo and marvellous," Patrick said with a sway and a swagger, throwing his hat casually onto the table and his coat onto a peg, "couldn't be better."

"Hello darling," Shelagh said getting up to kiss him, "I'm just about to start dinner."

"Actually, I need you to do something else first," Patrick said, handing her the Passport form, "I've already done mine and the children's and they need them back tomorrow so they'll be ready for the weekend."

Patrick watched Shelagh's eyes as she scanned the form on her hand. They suddenly widened when she realised what it was.

"Passport! What do I need a Passport for? And the weekend, what's happening at the weekend?"

"Are we going on holiday?" piped up Timothy excitedly from the table.

Patrick grinned, Shelagh looked horrified.

"Not exactly Tim, more of an adventure. We are going away for a while, not sure how long for, as long as it takes I suppose."

Whilst Timothy grinned back at his father, Shelagh looked on the verge of slapping him across the face.

"What on earth are you thinking?" she shouted "What about work? The baby? All her things, the pram, the cot? We just can't go gallivanting off now we have a baby! What about the choir?" She paused to draw breath. "When were you going to tell me?"

"Oooh, erm, right about now actually," Patrick said grinning mischievously, and pretending to look at his watch, "we only decided last night. And anyway, everything is in order. I've arranged cover and Jenny and Cynthia are…"

"We? Who's we?" Shelagh interrupted.

"Us!" Patrick replied, taking the baby from Shelagh "We had a lovely long chat about it last night, didn't we sweetie?"

"And I suppose you want me to believe it was all her idea!" Shelagh snapped; a fiery anger raging in her eyes. "What is this madness?"

"Actually it was," Patrick said quietly, his jovial tone faded and his face fell. Suddenly Shelagh realised that she had upset him and he was being deadly serious, though she could neither fathom what he was planning nor explain his rationale. "And no Shelagh, this is no madness, I have never been saner or more certain of anything, not since the day I asked you to marry me."

Shelagh flushed scarlet.

"There are things I need to see, places I need to go. Places that I need you all to see," he finished.

Taking her hands in his spare hand he said.

"Now, answer me truthfully, do you love me?"

"Patrick, don't be…"

"Look me in the eye, and answer me."

Her topaz-blue eyes met his umber-brown.

"Yes Patrick."

"And do you trust me?"

"Yes Patrick."

"In that case, do as I tell you, come where I take you, and do not stop me."

"Where are we going? And why so suddenly?"

"You told me you trusted me. I will tell you where we are going on the way, and why when we get there. Now please, you do the forms and I'll start dinner."

She nodded in response, found a pen and sat at the table next to Timothy and began to write.

The next morning Patrick took the completed paperwork to the Passport Office. While he waited, he went round the shops and bought boxes and tins of non-perishable food, boxes of matches, plenty of Henleys, and sufficient toiletries, washing soap and nappies. Thinking about Shelagh's concerns about not having the pram, he had called into Nonnatus House and Sister Julienne had shown him how to make a baby sling from a long piece of material. He had also been to the bank and exchanged a wad of pound notes for various amounts of five different currencies. He returned to the house with four shiny new passports and called the ferry company again to confirm the provisional reservation which he had made for that Sunday night. He told Shelagh and Timothy to begin packing anything they wanted to take with them, warning them that they would have to travel light.

"There's not that much room in the car!"

Meanwhile, he went into the loft and began rooting around. He found a wickerwork picnic basket, complete with four sets of blue crockery and cutlery and a tartan blanket; a pair of old, canvas rucksacks; and a leather pouch containing a compass and a Swiss Army knife. He brought them all downstairs and put the basket and the pouch into the boot of the car which the camping gear. He left the rucksacks, half open, on the living room floor. He assembled a first aid kit and found his old thermos flask. He went to the shed and found a length of rope, a jerry can and a bucket, and added the lot to the boot. He returned to find Shelagh and Timothy in the sitting room, each holding an odd assortment of clothes and shoes. They looked at each other, and then at Patrick, wondering whether what they had collected the right things. Patrick read their expressions.

"Those will be fine," Patrick said, "as long as they fit in here," he finished, picking up the rucksacks.

With a bit of a squeeze, and Timothy sitting on them, they managed to get four people's worth of clothes into the two canvas bags. These were then added to the now very-full boot. Patrick could not stop smiling, and Timothy was getting more and more excited, but Patrick could tell that Shelagh was apprehensive. After they had had a fish-and-chip supper and settled the children into bed, Patrick and Shelagh sat together on the sofa. Shelagh snuggled into Patrick, but did not say anything.

"Shall I make us a mug of Horlicks each?" Patrick said after a few minutes.

"Since when have you drunk Horlicks?" Shelagh asked.

"Since yesterday, I've bought plenty to take with us."

"Is that supposed to make everything alright?"

Patrick put his arm round her and kissed the top of her head.

"I thought that was what Horlicks was put on this earth for!"

He then started laughing. Shelagh poked him in the ribs.

"Stop it you, I'm worried about this."

"I know you are, and you have every right to be, but trust me."

"I do."

"Well that's alright then. Right, Horlicks!"

Sunday came and the Turners prepared to leave the house. Shelagh was desperately trying to check and double check that they had everything, but Patrick and Timothy's excitement and enthusiasm made it difficult to concentrate, so she gave up trying. After lunch, they got into the car. Patrick drove, Timothy sat in the front and Shelagh and the baby in her Moses basket were in the back. They wound their way out of the suburbs of London and were soon out on the open road. After a few hours, Shelagh said.

"You said you would tell us where we were going on the way, so where we are going?"

"Southampton," Patrick replied.

"And why are we going to Southampton?"

"Ah, I said I wouldn't tell you that until we got there!" Patrick chuckled.

Timothy snorted and looked round to see a very miffed look on his mother's face. Patrick saw her reflection in the rear view mirror, and emulated Timothy's snort.

"Patrick!"

"I'll tell you when we get there!"

He chuckled to himself as he heard a "humph" from the back seat, then returned his thoughts to the road and the long journey they had ahead of them.


	7. Chapter 7

The Turner's green MG rolled into Southampton in the early evening. After stopping in a café for something to eat, Patrick drove the last few miles down to the port and they waited to board the ferry. Whilst they waited in the queue, Shelagh said,

"You still haven't told us why we are in Southampton."

"We are in Southampton, because I was here, twenty years ago. I was here, with all my things in a bag over my shoulder, ready for what I thought was going to be an adventure. And here on the portside, as we are doing now, I waited to get on a boat, a boat which took me to the place that will be our destination tomorrow morning."

"And where is that?" Shelagh asked.

"Now, now, remember what I said. We are not yet on way there yet. I will tell you when we are at sea," Patrick teased.

"Oh…" Shelagh began to protest, but stopped when she saw Patrick's raised eyebrow.

Satisfied that he had irritated Shelagh sufficiently to stop her protesting, and ensuring she could not see him, he gave Timothy a sly wink. Timothy winked back at his father and then, putting on a concerned tone of voice, said.

"Dad, I think you might be being a bit unkind to Mum. Just think for a moment, Mum might not be the most confident of travellers. I mean, she used to be a nun. She never went on adventures, did she? That's not what nuns do. They pray, and make things, and eat cake. The only places where she really used to go to were places she could walk or cycle to. And most of the time, that was just to people's houses to deliver babies. So this must all be a bit scary for her."

"Thank you Timothy," Shelagh said, moving so that Patrick could see the glare on her face in the rear view mirror.

"Yes, I suppose so," Patrick mused, flashing Timothy another sly grin.

"Especially, as we both know, getting one bus back to Poplar was clearly far beyond her travelling capabilities!"

Patrick and Timothy looked at each other again and then laughed until they were crying and gasping for breath. Shelagh tried scowling at them, but her attempts were futile and a smile soon formed on her face.

"Enough of your cheek, young Timothy, or you might find yourself being thrown overboard."

They boarded the ferry, pulled the rucksacks out of the boot and made their way to the cabin which Patrick had reserved for them. Opening the door, they found that inside the main room were four bunks with white bedding, a small, slightly wonky table, and a metal clothes rail, and off it was a small cubical with a lavatory, sink and shower. The porthole was framed by a pair of red-checked curtains. The last rays of the summer evening sunshine shone into the cabin.

"Well this is alright isn't it?" Patrick said.

"I think we'll all be very comfortable," Shelagh replied.

"Did this used to have a gun poking out of it?" Timothy asked, pointing at the porthole.

"No Tim, this is a passenger ship, not a battleship," Patrick replied, "It's just a window."

The ferry pulled out of port just as the final rays of sunlight disappeared over the horizon. Timothy insisted on sleeping in one of the top bunks, and they put the Moses basket on the bottom bunk below him. Once the children were settled, Patrick and Shelagh sat on the other bottom bunk, waiting for them to fall asleep.

"Come up on deck with me," Patrick said after a while, "I could do with stretching my legs and getting some fresh air."

"What about the children?"

"They'll be alright. They can't go anywhere, can they? And we'll only be gone for a little while."

"Alright."

They left the cabin, closing the door gently behind them and then walked, hand-in-hand along the corridor, up two flights of stairs and out onto the deck. It was a warm night, the clear night sky was full of stars, a gentle breeze ruffled their hair and the inky-black sea was as calm as a millpond. They walked the length of the deck in silence, before stopping near the prow. They stood for a moment, looking out into the seemingly unending darkness of the sea in front of them. Then Patrick spoke.

"What a beautiful night."

"Isn't it?"

He sighed.

"Last time I did this journey the fog was so thick you could barely see from port side to starboard, the wind was howling and the waves crashed against the ship, causing it to lurch uncontrollably. I spent most of the journey projectile vomiting over the side."

When he saw the look on Shelagh's face he added.

"Sorry, you didn't need to know that."

Shelagh smiled and patted his arm.

"Yes, that day on that container ship was highly unpleasant," he finished.

"What were you doing on a container ship?" she asked.

"I told you earlier that, twenty years ago, I was in Southampton, waiting for a boat. We were put on whichever British vessel had room for us at the time. It just so happened that I was put on an old container ship."

Shelagh put an arm round her husband's middle. She wondered whether she was beginning to understand the purpose of the trip, but did not feel confident enough to say anything to him yet.

"Am I allowed to ask now where this boat is heading?"

Patrick smiled.

"We are heading for the French port town of Le Havre, and don't ask why we are heading there and not any other French port," he said grinning, anticipating his wife's next question, "you'll find out tomorrow."

"I wasn't going to," Shelagh replied, "not after the abuse I got from you two earlier!"

Patrick put his both his arms round his wife, drawing her closer to him. He kissed her cheeks and then her lips.

"Thank you," he said, his voice muffled slightly, "for being the most wonderful, wonderful woman in the entire world. I love you more than I can possibly describe."

"Oh Patrick, I love you too, and will support you, through anything, forever"

"I know you will."

They broke their embrace, strolled another lap of the deck, hand-in-hand, and then returned to the cabin. In the dark, trying not to wake the children, they found their night things and got ready for bed. Whilst Patrick was brushing his teeth, Shelagh settled herself into the other bottom bunk and snuggled under the covers. Patrick emerged and, seeing where Shelagh had put herself, wandered over, and whispered in her ear.

"Is there any room in there for a little one?"

"Yes," she replied, "there is room for the little one who is already in it, go and find your own bunk," she teased.

Patrick pulled a sad face, his bottom lip drooping, his eyes cast down.

"There is not enough room for two of us," Shelagh whispered, "and anyway, can you really be quiet enough to not wake the children who are, ooh, um, four feet away?"

"You saucy little…" Patrick began.

Shelagh shushed him. "I'm sure you can manage for one night. Go to sleep. Besides, we have an adventure to go on. We can't be tired for it, can we?"

With a reluctant "humph" Patrick kissed her goodnight and climbed into the fourth bunk, and he was convinced that he heard Shelagh giggling to herself in the darkness.

The next morning, after they had washed, dressed and re-packed the rucksacks, they found the ship's canteen. Just as they had finished polishing off a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea each, Timothy looked out the window and squeaked.

"I can see land!"

He then turned to Patrick.

"Dad, which land can I see?"

"You can see the north coast of Normandy son, which is a region of northern France."

"Where William the Conqueror came from?"

"The very same! And can you see those buildings?"

"Yes."

"That is a place called Le Havre, and that is the next stop on our adventure. Speaking of which, we better start heading down to the car, we don't want to be taken back to Southampton do we?"

"No we don't," Shelagh replied, "we want to continue on our journey."


	8. Chapter 8

They disembarked and headed out of the port. The sun was shining and the cloudless sky was a cornflower blue. Patrick drove a few hundred yards, and then stopped the car on the edge of a concrete jetty. There were no boats moored against it, and it looked as though it had not been used for a while. It was stained green with algae and rubbish, old oil drums and lengths of frayed, tangled rope lay strewn across it. He switched off the engine and looked out of the car window. "Yes", he thought, "this is the place."

Shelagh looked at Patrick's reflection in the rear view mirror. She could tell that he was reminiscing; his expression looked cloudy, as though he was in another place and time.

"Is everything alright Patrick?" she asked.

"The reason that we are in Le Havre today," he began, "is because of events which happened on that jetty last time I entered this port. After we got off the container ship, we were met on that jetty, our names were taken, and then we were put into vehicles and driven off."

"Who were we?"

"The, um, new, um, recruits," Patrick said, stuttering slightly over his words, "our adventure began on that jetty."

A light of realisation suddenly illuminated Shelagh's mind. The suspicions she had had the previous evening about the purpose of this trip seemed to have been suddenly confirmed. Did she dare ask him for a final clarification? "No," she decided, "not yet."

"I didn't get to see very much of Le Havre when I was here last time, you can't see much out of the back of a jeep, so we are going to spend the day here, find somewhere to stay and then continue on tomorrow, if that is alright?"

"I promised to go wherever you took me," Shelagh replied, "And if you want to take me to Le Havre, then, that is where I will go."

She stroked Patrick's hand, which was still gripping the gearstick. He loosened his grip and took her hand. "Thank you," he said. He let go of his wife's hand and sat just looking out of the window for another few minutes, then said, "right, we better be off" and started up the MG.

As Patrick turned onto the main road into the town, Timothy shouted,

"Stop, you're on the wrong side of the road!"

"Tim!" Patrick gasped, "Don't shout at me when I'm driving. And, no I'm not; you're supposed to drive on the right hand side in France."

"That's weird."

"Actually, we are probably the weird ones, Tim, the whole of mainland Europe drives on the right hand side."

Patrick parked the car in a side street just off a square in the old part of town.

"Come on," he said getting out of the car, "let's go and explore."

He turned to Shelagh, who was holding the baby. "Do you want to carry her or shall I?"

"How far are we going? She's getting heavy to carry around all day."

"I've thought of that" Patrick said, opening the boot and pulling out a paper bag, "now, can I remember how to do it?"

Shelagh and Timothy looked at him with intrigue. He took the piece of material out of the bag and began to form it into a sling around Shelagh and the baby, securing it with knots and safety pins.

"Is that comfy enough?" he asked.

"I didn't realise you had been to Cynthia's mother craft classes," she teased. "And it's fine," she added.

"I haven't, Sister Julienne taught me how to make it."

"She knows about this trip?"

"She knows that we are on a family holiday which involves walking in places where were we could not take a pram."

They spent the next few hours wandering gently round the streets of the town, exploring the pretty parks, the cobbled squares and the old buildings.

"This part of town was spared the bombings," Patrick said. He paused. "The town was occupied just weeks after I came through."

Shelagh took his hand, stroking his palm, wondering whether he would continue. He did not.

"I think it's nearly lunchtime," Patrick said, aware of the silence which had descended over the family group, "let's find a Crêperie."

"Dad, did you just swear?" Timothy gasped with mock horror, "There are women and children present!"

Patrick and Shelagh stared at their son.

"No I didn't, and anyway, if I had, you shouldn't know, you're far too young!" He couldn't prevent himself smirking. "A Crêperie is a café which sells crêpes, which, before you say anything, are a sort of pancake. I tried them last time I was in France. You can have sweet ones or savoury ones."

The Turners found a Crêperie a few streets away, and sat down first to plates of savoury ones filled with ham and cheese, chicken and mushrooms, and beef and mustard, before deciding that they had to try sweet ones too. By the time they had shared out a cinnamon, a chocolate, and a honey filled one, they were very full and very sticky.

"Well," said Timothy, patting his stomach, those crêpes certainly weren't cr…"

"Timothy!"

Patrick paid the bill and inquired whether there were any lodgings available nearby for that night. He was given an address two streets away and told the others to wait while he went to see if it was suitable. Shelagh, still carrying the baby against her, and Timothy made their way outside and sat on the edge of a raised kerb just outside the Crêperie. The mid-afternoon sun was hot, and there was very little shade to be had. Shelagh turned her back on the sun, trying to shade the baby. Timothy looked at his mother and sister.

"Mum, you're tired, I'll carry her."

"Are you sure?" "

Yes, absolutely."

Shelagh carefully undid the sling and then re-fastened it around Timothy, who gently cradled his sister. Patrick returned moments later and informed them that he had found them two rooms for the night, but that they were unable to check in for another few hours. Seeing how hot they all looked, he added that he had found a leafy park with lots of shade and suggested that they went there whilst he went back to get the car.

When Patrick arrived at the park with the tartan picnic blanket and some cold drinks, he saw his wife and children sat leaning against the trunk of an old oak tree. He spread the blanket out, and handed each of them a drink. There was a public drinking fountain nearby. Timothy stood up and walked over to it, filling up his now empty lemonade bottle. He took a swig and then crept up behind his father and tipped the rest over his head.

"Aaaah!" Patrick gasped, "Timothy you little…" he started laughing, then, grabbing his own bottle, filled it up and ran after Timothy. They were soon both soaked.

Shelagh sat watching them play, laughing, and was unable to decide whether her husband or her son was the bigger child. When there was not a stitch of clothing left to get wet, they slumped back down on the blanket. The four Turners lay spread out on the blanket looking up at the sky through the branches of the tree. After a while, Patrick sat up, looked around him and said.

"I'm so glad that France is beautiful."

Shelagh propped herself up on her elbows so that she could look at him. She wondered what to say. After a moment she said.

"I'm glad you find it beautiful," she paused, and then whispered, "now."

Patrick looked at her. "Was she beginning to understand?" he thought. "Does she know yet?" But he couldn't bring himself to ask. He just stroked her face and smiled. He then looked at his watch.

"We could probably go and check into the guest house in a minute, freshen up a bit, dinner somewhere nice, how does that sound?" "

Anything you say sounds wonderful" Shelagh replied.

"Oh please!" drawled Timothy, "You sound like soppy teenagers."

The guest house was basic, but clean and comfortable. Patrick, Shelagh and the baby were in one room and Timothy had a small box room to himself next door, and the bathroom was at the end of the corridor. After they had eaten, settled the baby and said goodnight to Timothy, Patrick and Shelagh stretched out on the bed.

"Well, Mrs. Turner, there's plenty of room for two in tonight's accommodation."

"Yes, there is" she giggled.

"Well, I don't know where we will be sleeping tomorrow night, so we better make the most of this opportunity."

"Whatever you say P…"

But she could not finish her sentence. Her husband's lips were pressed too tightly against hers.

The next morning after a breakfast of coffee, juice and croissants, the Turners got into the car and headed out of the town and onto the main road. Patrick only had a vague recollection of where their next destination was located, and having left it so long ago, in the circumstances which he had, he had no idea whether there would be anything there to see at all if he did find it. Their route wound through many miles of rolling fields, quaint villages and apple orchards. They took regular rest stops, buying a picnic in one of the villages they passed through, and during them Patrick looked at the old map he had brought. He was desperately trying to remember place names, landmarks, church towers, anything in the landscape that would help him find where he was. He knew his destination was somewhere between two towns, which were on his map, but it seemed that the map was older than most of the roads they were travelling on, and could not see a sign to anywhere he knew. About eight hours after leaving Le Havre, Patrick admitted defeat and pulled the car over.

"We are lost," he said, resting his head against the steering wheel.

Noticing her husband was gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles turn white, Shelagh picking up the map from where Patrick had dropped it an hour or so before and said, "Where are we going?"

"It's not on the map, I don't even know if it is still there. All I know is that it is near a wood, somewhere between those two towns," he said putting his fingers on the map.

"What was the name of the village we passed through a while back?"

"I can't remember."

"Well, in that case, we need to drive to the next village, find out its name, and ask someone to assist us."

His wife's calm manner and common sense softened his tension and he started the engine up again. They rolled into the next village, and Patrick went into a shop to ascertain where they were. He emerged a few minutes later with some shopping.

"Well I know where we are, and possibly how to get to where we are going, but we are a long way off course. I'm too tired to drive much further tonight, and there is nowhere nearby to stay. The shop owner owns a fallow field at the other side of the village. He said we can camp there tonight. This is for tea," he finished, indicating the bag.

They parked up outside the field, opened the stiff, five-bar gate, and carried the camping gear from the car and laid it out in the grass. There were several big trees in the field, and a stream gushing down one side towards the road. Timothy and Patrick put the tent up. Chummy had given Patrick the smallest of the Cub's tents, but eight people would easily fit inside it. There was much clanging of metal poles, tangling of ropes, losing of pegs and a loud cry when Patrick hit his thumb with the mallet. While the boys were occupied with the tent, Shelagh had collected wood for the camping stove and some water from the steam to make tea. She opened the bag that Patrick had left the shop with and found a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread, half a dozen apples and some sausages. She fed the baby while she waited for the stove to warm up and then settled her into the Moses basket. By the time the tent was up and the sausages, beans which Shelagh had found in the box of food they had brought from home, and toast were cooked it was getting dark, so they ate sat near the fire so that they could see.

Timothy went to bed as soon as he had finished his tea and within minutes his snores could be heard from the tent. Patrick and Shelagh washed up by torch light, put the fire out and gathered everything into the tent. They got ready for bed and curled up together in their sleeping bags. Patrick kissed Shelagh and said. "I will really need your support tomorrow." He wrapped his arms round her and nuzzled her shoulder. "And you'll have it," she replied. "Thank you."


	9. Chapter 9

Patrick barely slept that night. The uneven, sun-baked ground which the tent was pitched on hurt his back and he could not get comfortable. When he finally dropped off, his dreams were plagued by sights and sounds which he had not experienced for many years. He suddenly jolted awake and sat bolt upright. He gasped for breath and beads of sweat ran down his face. The first rays of dawn were permeating the canvas walls just enough for him to see the hands on his watch, which told him it was just before 5 am. He knew trying to go back to sleep now was futile, so he pulled a sweater on over his pyjamas, found his shoes and his Henleys and crept out of the tent.

He paced up and down the length of the field a few times, smoking to try to calm his nerves and shake the nightmare from his head. He decided a cup of tea would help, so reached into the tent to where they had put the mugs, tea and milk the night before and then fired up the camping stove and filled up a saucepan from the stream. It was then that he spotted a rounded, raised, grassy section in the opposite bank of the stream. It looked inviting, and the stream, although fairly deep, was narrow, so Patrick, taking care not to spill the tea he had just made, took a small hop and landed safely on the other side. He sat, cross-legged on the mound, lit another Henley and drank his tea, watching the sun rise up further over the hills and trees which framed the field in which they were camping. He thought about the nightmare he had, wondering what it meant.

"Am I doing the right thing?" he said aloud. His heart knew that he was, but, sat there, alone, his head was not entirely convinced.

He got through another three Henleys before he heard a rustle from the tent. Shelagh popped her head out. She had obviously just woken, she did not have her glasses on yet and her eyes looked hazy, her hair was a tangled mess, and her nightdress was slipping off one shoulder. She spotted Patrick and then went back into the tent, re-emerging seconds later wearing her glasses, shoes and one of Patrick's cardigans. She walked over to the stream and with delicate poise, jumped the stream and landed gently at Patrick's side.

"There you are," she said, sitting down next to him. "You gave me such a fright; I thought something had happened to you."

Shelagh put her arms round his middle and leant into him, but flinched as she touched him.

"Oh Patrick, you're cold. How long have you been out here?"

"About two hours," he replied, "you missed a beautiful sunrise."

"Why are you out here?" she asked. "I'm sure you weren't just watching the sunrise."

"I had, a, erm, a, er, a nightmare," Patrick stammered after a moment. He felt his cheeks flush. "Only children have nightmares," he thought. "It was nothing, nothing at all," he finished aloud, not daring to look at Shelagh. He was suddenly aware that his heart was racing and he was trembling slightly.

Shelagh hugged him tighter, also aware that he was trembling.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"I, I, I do, but, but…"

"Trust me Patrick."

Patrick took several deep breaths.

"It was like I was back there again, here, like it was the first time." He clenched his fists. "The noise, the men, the smell…" His voice trailed off, a tear rolled down his cheek. "It's because I've come back."

"Patrick, I know why we are here." Patrick looked at her, a fearful look in his eye. "And I want you to know that I think that, by having the courage to do what you are doing, you are the bravest man in the world. You have lived through terrible things, and carry great burdens, and I can only begin to imagine how hard it is for you. But, I want to thank you, for letting me help you shoulder your burdens."

Patrick's eyes sparkled with tears, but he did not cry. He squeezed Shelagh tighter to him and kissed her hair. Unable to think of anything else to say or do, he let go of Shelagh, stood up, and then pulled her to her feet, saying,

"Let's start breakfast. We have a long way to go today, especially if I get us lost again."

By 9 am, they were packed up and on the road again. The shop-keeper's directions put them back on the right course and Patrick soon found he was recognising place names. He then recognised an odd-shaped junction and instinctively took a left. He slowed the car down, scanning the scenery for something he recognised. He noticed a dense wood, set back from the road. And then he saw it. It was really still there.

"Right we are here," he said, pulling the car into a gateway.

"Where's here?" Timothy asked.

"Where I used to work."

"But there's just a barn, in a field."

"It is now, actually it was not much more than a barn then, but twenty years ago it was a hospital. It was the least structurally stable part of the base, but now it's the only bit left. It's quite ironic really!"

They climbed out of the car and slipped through a gap in the fence. They began to wander over to the former hospital.

"The officer's quarters were there," Patrick said, waving his arm to his right, "and the rest of the barracks were there," pointing straight ahead, and "the mess hall was over there somewhere," pointing to his left.

They reached the doorway of what was the field hospital. Large chunks of its roof were missing, no glass remained at the windows and the wooden doors were hanging rotten on rusty hinges. They crept in.

"This was the medical storeroom," he said, walking through the first doorway. "And through there," he pointed through another, partially collapsed doorway "was where we had to do operations."

"People had operations in here?" Timothy gasped.

"Yes Tim," he said, walking back into the main corridor "and down there were the wards, and that doorway there was the duty medic's office."

They wondered round the remains of the building for another few minutes, and turned to leave. Shelagh and Timothy, who was carrying his sister, began walking back towards the car. But Patrick stood stock still, looking round the field and towards the woodland which formed its backdrop.

"Patrick!" Shelagh called when she realised that he had not followed them.

When he did not respond, Shelagh called Timothy and they walked back to where Patrick stood. She saw that he was shaking.

"What happened here?" Shelagh said, holding Patrick.

Patrick's knees seemed to give way under his weight, he sat on the ground. Shelagh and Timothy joined him.

"This whole area was a, a, a British a-army camp. One night we were a-a-attacked by the Germans. I had to f-f-fight for my life. I k-k-k-killed four men. The survivors, we hid…" he pointed behind him, his arm shaking "…in those woods until morning."

He broke down in tears; he drew his knees up to his chest, and rested his head on them. Shelagh held him tighter. She tried to say something, but words failed her.

"Please don't hate me. I had to do what I did."

Patrick looked at his wife. She was unable to conjure up anything to say. They sat in silence, before Timothy said.

"Well we know what we need to do now, don't we?"

His parents looked at him with puzzled expressions on their faces.

"Bad stuff happened to Dad here, but he must have brought us here for a good reason. The bad stuff is part of him, part of his past, so he can't completely forget it, but he wants to try to rectify, is that the right word?" He paused and looked at his father for reassurance. Patrick nodded. Timothy continued "…the wrongs that happened, the things that hurt him. And that is why he brought his family here. So what we need to do is make this place a happier place for Dad. We are the only ones who can. That way he won't think of the bad things that happened here, only the good. Right, we'll give you to a count of fifty to go and hide."

Patrick and Shelagh sat staring dumbstruck at Timothy, shocked not only by their son's perception, but also his request.

"Well, go and hide," Timothy repeated.

"What do you mean Timothy?" Shelagh asked.

"Dad said that he and his friends had to hide from the Germans who were trying to find them, which is bad, obviously. We could rectify that by playing hide-and-seek, which is good and makes people happy, as long as no-one cheats. So go and hide."

Patrick's face lit up. "How clever my son is," he thought. He jumped up and hugged Timothy as tightly as he could.

"Timothy you wonderful boy, you've always made me happy, happier than anything else in the world."

"And Dad you will always be my hero, and none of us could ever hate you. Please don't think that," Timothy said before wriggling out his father's embrace. "One, two, three…" he began.

"Alright we're going!" Patrick and Shelagh said, jumping to their feet.

"Four, five, six…"

Looking at each other and smiling, Shelagh and Patrick ran off in the direction of the woods.

That night as he laid in his sleeping bag staring at the roof of the tent, reflecting upon the day that he had had, the steps he had made, Patrick pondered his son's choice of word. "Rectify" he thought, "fixing things, curing ailments, remedying problems, doing precisely what a Doctor should do."

He knew now for certain what to do, and silently thanked both his children for showing him the way.


	10. Chapter 10

After breakfast the following morning, Patrick announced that they were going to walk the mile or so from the campsite where they had spent the night into the next town. As they walked through the narrow, winding lanes, which were bordered by pastures and wheat fields, Patrick carried his daughter in the sling and held his wife's hand. Timothy skipped on ahead, zigzagging across the road, looking over walls and trying to catch butterflies in his cap. He then saw a stocky grey pony, trying to reach fresh grass over a fence. A little wary at first, he walked up to it, then gently patted its neck and rubbed its ears, before pulling up a handful of grass and offering it. The pony took the grass from Timothy's hand, and then rubbed its head against Timothy's chest.

"You've made a friend there Timothy," Shelagh said.

Patrick could not help smiling as he surveyed the scene. Shelagh noticed his face and squeezed his hand. He moved his hand from hers to wrap his arm round her waist.

"I've walked this road before," Patrick began his smile fading slightly. "We were fleeing the camp, trying to find safety. We walked for twenty five miles, in blistering heat with no food or water, we didn't know if we would make it."

"You don't need to flee to safety anymore," Shelagh said "Safety is here, with us, your family. And we are walking with you."

"I know you are, and that is why I wanted to walk this part of the journey, to, rectify, things."

"Timothy was quite word-perfect yesterday wasn't he?"

Patrick smiled "Yes he was. Well," he continued, "we were rescued and taken to a place of safety. That's where we are going next."

Five minutes later Patrick stopped at a junction just outside the old walls of a small town, medieval in origin he reckoned, its skyline dominated by a Gothic church spire.

"This is where we were rescued, by a priest and his horse and cart. He was a double agent, working for everyone it seemed. He hid us in that church," he said, pointing at the spire, "down in the crypt for four days. That's where we are going."

They walked into the town and into the square where the church was located. A wedding party were just leaving the church: the groom, tall and dark with a rugged features and a finely chiselled jaw line; the bride short and slim, and younger than him, her wavy golden hair cascading down the back of her white dress; surrounded by their loved ones.

The Turners watched the happy scene until the party had left, and then walked up to the mighty oak doors of the church.

"St Christopher's, that's what it's called," Patrick said, "I didn't ever find out last time."

"The patron saint of travellers," Shelagh remarked, "quite appropriate really."

They entered the nave of the church and saw the priest sat in the front row.

Patrick walked up to him and asked, "Pourrions-nous entrer dans la crypte?"

"Oui, monsieur."

Shelagh opened her mouth to ask him when he learnt to speak French, but stopped. "You fool!" she thought to herself.

The priest showed them through a series of doors, steps and narrow passageways, then unlocked a final oak door, and then stepped back to allow the family in. Patrick looked round the old stone room. There were perhaps a few more tombs that he remembered, but essentially it had not changed. It was cold, damp, and grey from floor to ceiling.

"Nine other men and I were hidden down here waiting to be rescued. The priest was able to get us small amounts of food and water, but we certainly had no comforts. We slept on the floor, trying to get comfy on the slabs. I slept here," he said, walking over to a corner behind an ornate sarcophagus. He sat on the floor. "We, those who nearly died, were residing with those who were dead."

He began trembling. Shelagh ran to him and held him.

"The smell, the blood, I…"

Patrick suddenly got up, and ran out of the crypt, his rapid footsteps reverberating around the stone passageways. Shelagh and Timothy followed him. They found him sat on the stone steps of the church, his head in his hands, tears in his eyes. Timothy reached him first and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Leave me alone."

"Dad, what's the matter?"

"I ran away, I'm nothing but a coward, you must be so ashamed."

"I'm not and neither are you, and I know that because we are here, helping you. If you were a coward we would still be at home, oh, I don't know, helping Mum decide what to have for pudding or which silly piece of music she wants the Choral Society to sing next."

Patrick felt his lips curve very slightly.

"You've shown us that part of the story," Timothy continued, "and we'll remember it. Remember also, that you don't have to go there again."

Before his father could protest, Timothy threw both arms around his neck and said.

"I love you Dad."

Once again, Timothy's astuteness and childish innocence had rescued Patrick from a dark place in his past. He wondered what he would do without him.

As Timothy let go of Patrick, Shelagh helped the two of them up and said, "Come on you two." She turned to Patrick, "where are we going next?" she asked.

"A café in a square," Patrick replied.

They walked down the steps across the square and back to the campsite hand in hand. They piled into the car and headed out onto the main road. When they pulled into the pretty cobbled square some hours later, Patrick was delighted to see that it was exactly how he remembered it. The stripy awning still adorned the shops and cafés, the fountain was still gently bubbling, the flowerbeds radiant with colour and trees still cast dappled shadows across the entire scene.

"Oh it's beautiful Patrick," Shelagh gasped looking out of the window.

"It's just how I remember it," he replied, "we are going to that café," he said, pointing to a small building to their right, "I've always wanted to spend a long lazy afternoon sitting outside it."

The Turners sat at a table outside of the café underneath the red and white striped awning. Patrick ordered them fish stew, salad and bread, orange juice for Timothy and a carafe of white wine. He took a sip of his, and laughed saying.

"Well the quality of the wine has definitely improved in the last twenty years!"

The food was excellent and after they had polished their main course followed by a Tarte Tatin and cream for pudding, they sat quite content, watching the world go by. The baby was fast sleep in her Moses basket, like her father, obviously content to spend a lazy afternoon in the square. Shelagh had been wondering throughout the meal why Patrick had brought them to this beautiful place, and this café in particular, as he had not given any indication of his motives either on the way or since they arrived. While Timothy went off to the lavatory, she seized the moment and asked.

"We are here because of something which happened in that room there," Patrick said, pointing to a window in the upper storey of the café, "something which I regret to this day."

"What was that?"

"Well, um, er," Patrick began to stammer. He felt his cheeks flush slightly.

At that moment Timothy arrived and sat down again at the table. An awkward silence descended. Acutely aware as always, Timothy said. "What have I missed?"

"Nothing darling," Shelagh said, though she knew she did not sound convincing.

"I've had an idea Tim." Patrick said, quickly taking a pen and a crumpled piece of paper out of his trousers pocket. "I want you to take this money," he handed him a few francs, "and then go round the shops and find," he began to write "some pain, buerre, jambon, fromage, lait, pommes, tomates and gateaux, and if there is any change left you can buy some of these for yourself," he finished, writing bonbons on the list. "It will be a good way to practise the French you've learned at school."

"Um ok then," Timothy said, and shuffled off to the nearest shop. With Timothy out of the way, Patrick began his story.

"After we had been rescued from the church crypt we were taken to another army base just outside of this town. We were given our first night off so we came here for a drink. Except we didn't just have one drink, we, well, we were young; we had never really drunk wine before, and certainly not calvados."

"What's calvados?"

"A type of brandy made from apples. I then, well, I," he felt his cheeks flush.

"Go on," Shelagh teased.

Patrick leaned into Shelagh and whispered in her ear, "I lost my virginity in that room upstairs."

Patrick watched Shelagh's reaction to his revelation, every one of her thought processes reflected in her sparkling blue eyes. Suddenly, her eyes opened wider than he had ever seen them, her jaw dropped slightly and she gawped at him for a few seconds before stuttering, "but you weren't, I mean, you hadn't, got, married, so who with, no, Patrick, really?" she began to blush pinker than Patrick.

Patrick nodded. "I told you I regretted what I'd done, and I still regret it today. I regretted it most when I was married to Timothy's mother. I felt I had deceived her, knowing another like that, before her. That feeling plagued me; perhaps that is why in ten years of marriage we only had Timothy."

"Why did you?"

"I was young, I was drunk, I was foolish, and one of the lads had shouted something about living for the moment as you might be dead tomorrow."

Shelagh took his hands in hers.

"I wish I hadn't, I hated every second of it. I had always imagined that my first time would be magical, just as it was the first time with you."

Patrick's hand left Shelagh's and found her thigh under the table. Shelagh flushed an impressive shade of scarlet.

"Patrick, we're in a public place in the middle of the day!" she protested. He did not move. She then realised what he had actually said. "Magical?" she asked coyly.

"Truly magical," he said leaning into her, "because I knew I was not deceiving you, you knew I had known another. And for the first time in my life, I felt, well…"

He did not finish his sentence, but planted a kiss on her lips, and moved his hand further up her thigh then rested it on her hip. Shelagh put her arms around Patrick's neck, drawing him closer to her. After what seemed like hours, Shelagh noticed Timothy leaving a shop on the opposite side of the square, and broke the embrace.

"Is this everything you wanted Dad?" Timothy said, handing Patrick the paper bags he was holding.

"Yes, son that's absolutely fine. Right, I think we have time for a small calvados, and then we better find somewhere to pitch the tent for the night."

He skipped off into the café, returning a few minutes later with two small glasses of calvados. Shelagh was not sure whether she liked it or not, it was much stronger than she was used to, but Patrick drained his glass and felt a warm sense of satisfaction. Timothy stole Shelagh's glass and tried some, and both his parents laughed at the faces he pulled when his tongue and throat began to tingle from the strong liquor.

"That serves you right," his parents chorused.

Later that night, Patrick drifted off to sleep in his wife's arms, thinking of all he had achieved over the past few days, and how lucky he was to have the wife and children he had been blessed with.

"Magical" he thought, "truly magical."


	11. Chapter 11

Most of the following day was spent in the car, travelling across northern France towards the Belgian border. Patrick had spent his time in Belgium moving from temporary camp to temporary camp, rarely staying anywhere for more than a few weeks. He knew that there would be nothing remaining of anywhere he had been stationed, but there were places in the country that he wanted to see, and wanted his family to see also. The weather had turned wet and grey, and by mid-afternoon, the rain was coming down in torrents. The changing weather seemed to reflect the mood in the car. Timothy was bored and irritable and Shelagh seemed restless and fidgety.

The long journey dragged on, but by early evening, the Turners had arrived in the town of Ypres. It was still raining heavily, so Patrick found a hotel. Given the weather, and after four days on the road and sleeping in fields, they were all very glad of a hot shower, a proper bed, and walls and a roof made of something sturdier than canvas around them. After freshening up, they had dinner in a restaurant nearby. By the end of the meal, Timothy was struggling to stay awake, and Shelagh, looking almost as exhausted, was trying to comfort a very grumpy baby.

"I think we all need an early night," Patrick said, stroking Shelagh and Timothy's forearms.

They walked back to the hotel and Patrick and Shelagh settled the children into bed. They then climbed into their bed in silence. Patrick had noticed that Shelagh had been quiet all day, and he hoped he had not done anything to upset her.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she retorted sharply, not looking at him.

"No you are not," he said, "You've not been yourself all day, I haven't upset you have I? I know I have expected a lot from you, coming on this trip, it's not too much is it?"

"No, don't be silly Patrick," she replied, turning to face him, "it's just I am very tired, and, uncomfortable."

She turned away again as she said "uncomfortable". Patrick immediately understood, and reached out his hand and began to gently rub her abdomen. At his touch, she looked back round at him. No-one had ever done that to her before, and she was surprised by the relief that it brought.

"Liz always used to say how much better it made her feel," Patrick said quietly, "is it helping?"

Shelagh nodded.

"Let's get some sleep, we both need it," he said kissing her forehead, "goodnight my love."

Patrick flicked the bedside light out with his spare hand, and he did not remove the other until Shelagh was fast asleep.

It was mid-morning before all four Turners were awake, cheerful and refreshed after a good night's sleep. The previous night's torrential rain had ceased, leaving a cool and fresh edge to the air. As they had missed breakfast at the hotel, Patrick decided that they should find somewhere where they could have waffles. Shelagh and Timothy, neither of whom had heard of, let alone eaten, a waffle were both highly intrigued about what was going to arrive on the table with their coffee, but were both delighted by the unusually shaped, sugar-coated treats.

The rest of the day was spent exploring the old town. They wandered through the Grote Markt, and visited the Cloth Hall, the centre of the town's former linen trade, "and where they used to throw cats off the roof," Patrick informed them, and the beautiful Gothic Cathedral of St Martin.

"Both the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral were originally built in the thirteenth century," Patrick had told them, "but they, like most of Ypres, were razed to the ground in the Great War and were then rebuilt. Tonight," he said thoughtfully, "we are going to witness a ceremony which is a powerful reminder of that war. And I'm going to try and find somebody lost long ago."

Patrick did not elaborate any further on the evening's planned events. Both Timothy and Shelagh wondered what he could have meant by "find someone lost long ago," but they neither asked him not discussed it between themselves. After they had had their evening meal, they walked across town until they arrived at a huge, ornately decorated, white marble and red brick gateway, spanning the main road in and out of Ypres. A large crowd was beginning to gather on both sides of the road.

"This is the Menin Gate," Patrick said, "it is a memorial to all the British and Commonwealth soldiers, who died in the first three years of the war, and who have no known grave. There is a remembrance ceremony here at eight o'clock every night. Can you see all the names on the walls?"

Timothy and Shelagh nodded.

"Somewhere on here, is my mother's brother James. He died in 1917, at the Battle of Passchendaele and his body was never found. I was only nine when he was killed, I don't remember much about him, only that he was very tall and had a deep voice."

Patrick took a few deep breaths, Shelagh held his hand.

"We'll look for him later," she said with a tone of reassuring kindness, "it looks like the ceremony is about to start."

A bugler appeared, and the gathered crowd fell silent. He began to play, the Last Post resonating around the Gate's cavernous arches. Silence fell again; the emotional tension of the atmosphere could have been cut with a knife. Patrick stood through the ceremony deeply moved, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. His arms, almost unconsciously, had found their way around his wife and son. The ceremony ended and as the crowds began to disperse, Timothy said,

"Shall we go and find your Uncle James?"

"I'm sure he served in the 39th Regiment, or Division, one of the two," Patrick said, scanning the names on the panel directly behind him.

The family wandered round the monument, trying to find a Regiment or Division called the 39th. Shelagh, carrying her sleeping daughter, stopped by a wall, stood on tip-toe, and craned her neck to read the name of the Division high above her head. She had found the 39th Division.

"Patrick," she called, beckoning him over to her, before pointing up at the panel above her head.

Patrick looked up to where Shelagh was pointing, and began scanning the list of names. His eyes widened as he saw a familiar name. He kissed his wife and daughter.

"Thank you girls" he said.

He reached up above his head, and traced the inscribed letters with his fingers.

"Hello, Uncle James," Patrick said, "I'm so glad I have found you. I hope, wherever you are, you are now at peace."

Patrick stood back from the wall, staring up at his uncle's name and the names of those around him. Again, almost unconsciously, his arms seemed to find their way around Shelagh and Timothy. He stood staring for another moment, before gently guiding Shelagh and Timothy away from the wall, onto the road and then back across the square towards their hotel.

At breakfast the next morning Patrick announced that he was going to take them all to Bruges. After the challenges of the last few days, he had decided that they needed to go somewhere he had never been before and spend the day creating positive memories.

"Bruges is somewhere I have never been, so we are just going there to have a nice day out," he said. "I've heard that it is very pretty, and it's rather famous for something, something you're quite fond of Tim."

"And what's that?" Timothy said indifferently, eying up his father over his cup.

"Well, since you seem so unenthusiastic about it, you won't mind waiting until we get there to find out," Patrick teased.

"Dad!" Timothy protested.

They arrived in Bruges by late morning. After finding somewhere to stay for the night, they walked through the cobbled streets of the city, stopping to visit the city's churches, its medieval belfry and, despite Timothy's protests, the Groeningemuseum.

"I don't think much to that painting," Timothy sneered.

"That's an original van Eyck!" Shelagh replied.

Patrick laughed. "Clearly our son is a philistine."

"What's a philistine?" Timothy asked.

"Look it up in a dictionary when we get home." Patrick grinned.

After lunch in a restaurant just off Burg Square, they took a boat ride along the city's canals. Although he had not asked directly, Patrick and Shelagh were both aware that Timothy was still trying to work out what Bruges was famous for that he was fond of. Clearly it was not medieval architecture, boats or Flemish art, but he could not work it out. Stepping off the boat, Patrick decided it was too unkind to keep Timothy in suspense any longer, so took them to one of the shops for which Bruges was renowned.

"A chocolate shop!" Timothy gasped as he looked through the window.

"I said Bruges was famous for something you were rather fond of," Patrick replied.

"Can I go in?"

"Well if you don't, I will," Shelagh giggled. She was also very fond of chocolate.

As they walked in, they saw that the whole building was full from floor to ceiling with chocolate, in all colours, shapes and sizes. The warm, sweet aroma was intoxicating, both Shelagh and Timothy found themselves instinctively licking their lips. Patrick grinned as he watched his wife and son flit between shelves and counters, images of glee and delight painted across their faces. The girl behind one of the counters offered them some samples to try; truffles, caramels and off-cuts of a rich, near-black bar. Their faces lit up and their eyes widened as the chocolates melted in their mouths. They all agreed that it was the nicest thing they had ever eaten.

"No offence to your cooking Mum," Timothy said, putting a second truffle into his mouth.

Ten minutes later the four Turners left the shop carrying several bags and boxes of chocolate, some for themselves and some as presents for their friends back in Poplar. They put their chocolate into the main part of the car, and the presents into the bottom of the boot out of sight where they would not be tempted to eat it.

That night as they lay curled up in bed Shelagh put her arms round Patrick's neck and whispered,

"Today has been a lovely, thank you."

He kissed her nose.

"Yes," he replied, "it has been a very happy day."


	12. Chapter 12

Early the next morning the Turners were on the road again, heading eastwards out of Bruges.

"After I was stationed in Belgium I was moved to the Alpine border between Austria and Italy," Patrick said as they sped along the main road, "but to get there we need to go through a country that was the one place on earth that I didn't want to be last time I was in Europe. But now, I think I want to see it." He paused and took a deep breath. "We are heading to West Germany."

Although he had always planned on including a visit to West Germany on the trip, now that he was actually heading towards the country's border, Patrick began to feel a little apprehensive. Although only a young child during the Great War, he remembered family friends, or their sons, suddenly not being there anymore. Since the Menin Gate ceremony, he had been trying to remember something else about his Uncle James, and had recalled him buying him a cricket bat for his ninth birthday, and challenging him to a game in the summer next time he visited. The game never happened. His adult life had been plagued by the effects of fighting against Germany in the war after that.

"Things must have changed, surely?" he thought as he drove along, "we're not enemies anymore."

They reached the West German border, their travel documents were checked and their passports stamped and returned.

"Wilkommen im Bundesrepublik Deutschland," the border guard said.

"Viele danke," Patrick replied.

As he drove off, he breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm here," he thought, "and I'm allowed to be here."

The afternoon was wearing on, so they found a campsite at the edge of a small village a few miles west of Aachen, pitched the tent and had supper sat on the tartan blanket. That night, despite having driven all day, Patrick was wide awake. The children had been asleep for several hours, and Shelagh had also made her way into the tent after he promised he would be there in five minutes. Looking at his watch in the glow of the fire, he realised half an hour had passed since she had gone inside. He lit a Henley and looked around him.

"I'm in Germany," he whispered to himself.

At that moment Shelagh stuck her head out of the tent. Seeing Patrick smoking and staring into space, she knew that something was troubling him. She slipped out of the tent in her nightdress and sat at Patrick's side.

"You're not sure about this are you?" she inquired, "About being here. You're thinking you've ended up behind enemy lines."

Patrick flinched at Shelagh's choice of words and shuffled away slightly.

"I'm sorry," she said, wrapping both her arms around his forearm, "bad choice of phrase."

"No," Patrick said, "word-perfect phrasing, I'm just not as honest with myself as you are."

Shelagh leant against him, her arm found its way around his waist. "We are not at war anymore. Nobody is going to hurt us, and it's safe for us to be here. We are going to see West Germany in its current beauty, not its violent past. Thinking as you are at the moment will not help; it will just make things worse."

Patrick sighed and gently kissed Shelagh's golden hair. "You're right," he said, "as always." He paused. "It just doesn't quite feel right being here, yet."

"Then we'll have to stay long enough so that it does," Shelagh replied, "there must be many beautiful things in a country so big: cities; forests; lakes; mountains. Let's see them all!"

Patrick grinned. "For someone who used to struggle so much with London buses you've become quite the adventurer," he teased, "owwww, that hurt," he squeaked as Shelagh poked him in the stomach.

"Well, perhaps I was not as bold then as I am now," she paused, "or now I have a strong and courageous man beside me I know nothing will harm me."

Patrick was glad that it was dark and that Shelagh could not see the crimson hue of his cheeks.

"Now," she continued, "even adventurers need their warm beds and sleep, especially ones which have been driving all day and ones who have gone cold sitting in a field in just her nightdress." She got to her feet, and pulled Patrick to his. "Tomorrow," she finished "we're going to see West Germany."

The Turners continued to travel eastwards and by the next afternoon, they had arrived in the centre of Cologne. Patrick had found them rooms in a pretty guest house in the Altstadt. It was several storeys high, so slender it looked like it had been stretched and its outer walls were painted Habsburg yellow. Their room's sash windows looked out over the Rhine. The river sparkled in the sunshine, the light almost dancing across the wide expanse of water. Patrick threw the window open and leaned out of it. A gentle breeze ruffled his floppy hair, and as he brushed a few stray strands out of his eyes, he regretted not getting it cut before they left. The sun was just still high enough in the sky for its rays to touch the east side of the building and he smiled as he felt its gentle warmth on his cheeks. Shelagh joined him at the window. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She had unpinned her hair, its fine curls rolling in the breeze like the gentle waves on the mighty river in front of them.

"It's beautiful here," he murmured.

Shelagh said nothing, but smiled and placed her hand onto his, which was resting on the outer windowsill.

After dinner that night Patrick asked one of the guest house staff whether they would mind keeping an eye on the children while he and Shelagh went out. Shelagh had taken a lot of convincing to leave them but he talked her round.

"It won't be for long," he said reassuringly.

They walked along the Rhine hand in hand, and then turned off the riverside path and walked up a narrow street which led deeper into the Altstadt. They found themselves on a street lined with bars. It was brightly lit, full of people, and music was resonating around the tall buildings

"Let's have a beer!" Patrick said, grinning at the scene.

"Beer?" Shelagh replied, "I, I can't drink beer, I'm a…"

"A girl?" Patrick teased, "That's no excuse, not here anyway, everyone drinks beer, look."

Shelagh looked to where he was pointing, all around them men and women were sat with glasses of beer in front of them. She looked back round to where Patrick had been, saw he was not there, and spun round just in time to see him disappear into the bar. She sat at the nearest free table and waited for him. He came out moments later with the largest, and smallest, beer glasses she had ever seen.

"This one is for you," he grinned, holding up the large Stein full of dark liquid, "only joking," he finished when he saw the look of horror on her face, and handed her the tiny Stange in his other hand. They clicked their glasses together.

"Prost, as they say in German."

"Prost" Shelagh replied.

Patrick took a hefty swig of his beer, his eyes lighting up as the liquid poured down his throat. He let out a contented sigh. Shelagh watched him, and then took a dainty sip from hers. She was pleasantly surprised by the taste which was neither as bitter, nor as strong, as she had imagined.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Kölsch," Patrick replied, "By law it can only be brewed in Cologne, do you like it?"

Shelagh grinned "I must admit I am rather enjoying it, can I try some of yours?" she finished shyly.

Patrick stared at his wife for a few seconds, before handing her his beer and watched her intently as she drank. His Dunkel was much stronger than her lighter Kölsch, and Patrick could tell from the look on Shelagh's face that she did not like it. He laughed at the expression she pulled.

"I'll stick to mine I think" she said, returning his glass.

They had another beer each, then walked back to the guest house, and found that both children were contently asleep.

"I think we might have to have more nights out together, just you and me, Mrs Turner," Patrick said wrapping his arms under hers and round her middle.

"That sounds really quite tremendous."

The next day was spent exploring Cologne. They visited St Peter's Cathedral, and climbed all the way to the top of the tower. As the climb was his idea, Patrick had offered to carry the baby, but half way up, he was beginning to regret the suggestion. Whilst Shelagh and Timothy, being much younger and fitter than him, had scampered up the spiral stairs, he had struggled to keep up and had to stop for several rests. When he finally made it, the views from the top were worth every breathless step. The city stretched out as far he could see, the Rhine gliding gently through it, Cologne's grey boundary defining the blue horizon, where earth met the heavens.

Having made the long, but decidedly easier climb back down the tower they bought Bratwürste and chips from a street vendor across the square from the Cathedral and sat eating them at plastic tables next to the stall.

"What's sow-ur-kr-out?" Timothy asked, scanning the chalk board by the stall.

"Sauerkraut is pickled cabbage" Patrick answered. He saw Timothy's face curl in disgust, "it's quite nice actually do you want to try some?" he grinned.

"Err, no!"

After finding an ice cream for pudding, they wandered back towards the guest house through the streets of the old town. Shelagh had insisted on buying Patrick some eau de Cologne. "Well, since we are here," she'd reasoned, "and, I like it."

They spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing in the sunshine on the banks of the Rhine. The baby was asleep and Shelagh lay on her stomach reading a book. Patrick had been sat watching the boats gliding up and down the river, and Timothy had been watching his father intently. He had wanted to ask his father something ever since they crossed the border, and he could no longer contain his curiosity.

"Dad"

"Yes Tim."

"Ever since we arrived here everyone has been so friendly to us, all the people in the shops, the staff at the guest house, even the man at the border. If the German's are so nice, why did we go to war against them?"

Patrick's eyes widened, breath caught in his throat. Timothy read his father's reaction instantly.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"It's alright Tim." He composed himself.

"We didn't go to war with Germany because the Germans were an evil people, we went to war because of the evil of one man, and his party, and he wasn't even German, he was Austrian."

"You mean," Timothy lowered his voice, "Hitler?"

Patrick nodded.

"So all the war, all the pain that people like you went through, was caused by just a few people in power, the people who were supposed to be in charge?"

"Yes."

Timothy sat thinking for a moment, twirling a few blades of grass between his fingers. He looked back at his father.

"I'm glad we came, otherwise, I would have always thought that the Germans were evil and Germany was a bad place. Now I know not to be um, err, pr, prej…"

"Prejudiced," Patrick finished.

"Yes."

Patrick moved round so that he was lying on his stomach in front of Timothy.

"I'm so glad Tim," he paused "and I am glad that we came too, because I needed to learn similar lessons."

"And have you?"

"I think I am getting there, son," Patrick said, rolling onto his back and staring into the sky, "I'm getting there."


	13. Chapter 13

For the next day and a half, the Turner's green MG meandered its way south from Cologne, deep into the countryside, towards West Germany's most south-westerly tip. Inspired by the things which Shelagh had listed in the campsite near Aachen, Patrick had decided to spend a couple of days in the heart of the Black Forest.

They pitched the tent at a campsite situated in a forest clearing, set back from the road, at the edge of a tiny hamlet. As they walked into the hamlet to stock up on food, its timber framed houses, with their crisply painted white walls, red tiled roofs and flower boxes, framed by the pine forest, a gently flowing river and the mountains on the horizon took their breath away; its simple beauty was a perfect beauty.

The dense forest, like it did the hamlet, enveloped the site. The stillness and the quiet gave Patrick the impression that he was a thousand miles away from the rest of the world. "Here," he thought that evening, as they sat round their campfire finishing off their mugs of pre-bed Horlicks, "I can think. I can heal."

A beautiful Saturday dawned for their first full day in the Black Forest. Beams of golden sun illuminated the clearing, there was not a cloud in the sky, and a pleasantly cooling breeze was ruffling through the ancient fir trees. The Turners spent that beautiful morning walking through the forest. Patrick and Shelagh walked hand in hand, as they had done on that winding road in France, whilst Timothy ran on ahead, darting between the trees, jumping over fallen logs and rolling down banks.

They followed a fast-flowing river for a mile or so, before it cascaded down into a deep ravine. After scrambling their way down a path which snaked down the ravine parallel to the waterfall they stood at the bottom, the waterfall's spray creating a gentle mist around them. After a few moments watching the waterfall, Timothy, who was now taking his turn to carry his sister, scampered ahead again, and Patrick and Shelagh found themselves stood alone, in the mist. They as they looked at each other, both knew that the other was remembering the first time they stood together in such a scene.

"I wanted to do this so much last time," Patrick said quietly, "but it didn't feel right. Now," he leant closer, "it feels so right."

He kissed her, tenderly at first, then more deeply and passionately than he had ever done before. Hands roamed everywhere, neither knew how long it lasted, neither wanted it to end. They both gasped as they finally broke their embrace, but their eyes remained focused, locked together.

"I wanted to do it last time too," Shelagh replied after a moment.

"What?" Patrick replied. "Really?"

"I was so pleased to see you, and I wanted to thank you for finding me. I put my cases down, wanting to reach out to you, I wanted to kiss you but I was too scared. And I was frightened of my own reaction if you returned the kiss. I thought if I had shied away, it would never happen again. And that was something I could not dare think about."

"I'm glad we waited for each other."

"Come on you two!" Timothy's voice came through the mist.

"We're coming," they replied.

In the next village they stopped at a coffee house. There were a series of wooden tables with colourful parasols outside, and the Turner's sat down in the shade, protected from the now very warm midday sun. The waitress came out and Patrick ordered for everyone in careful, but correct, German.

"What was the final thing you ordered?" Shelagh asked when the waitress had returned inside, "I worked out zwei Kaffee mit milch and ein limonade, but drei what?"

"Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte," Patrick replied as fast as he could, grinning.

"Oh good!" piped up Timothy.

"And what is a shwartsvarlder-whatever-it-was-you-said?"

"Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte translates literally as Black Forest cherry cake," Patrick replied, "it is a chocolate cake filled with whipped cream and cherries, which looks something like that," he finished, his eyes widening as he saw the waitress coming out of the coffee house door with a large round tray.

The waitress served the Turners their drinks and cake. The slices of Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte must have stood six inches high, the chocolate sponge was rich and dark, the cream light and fluffy, and the Kirsch-soaked cherries burst in their mouths, it was unlike any cake they had ever tasted.

"We better not tell Sister Monica Joan about this," Shelagh giggled, licking cream off her fork.

"She'll probably insist on someone coming here to collect one whenever she fancies a slice," Timothy mused, a dead-pan expression on his face.

Patrick and Shelagh tried, and failed, to suppress snorts of laughter.

"Perhaps we could find Mrs. B. a recipe," Patrick said, still laughing at Timothy, "it will save the travel expenses!"

While they were sat eating and drinking, a group of boys had started a football match on the other side of the street. The youngest was no more than nine, the oldest a year or two older than Timothy. A few of them noticed the family sat at the table outside the coffee house. One of the older boys stopped the game, picked up the ball, walked over to them and said to Timothy.

"Hallo! Mein Name ist Gregor. Möchtest du spielen?"

He raised the ball which he had in his hand and looked at Timothy expectantly. Timothy looked at his parents, with a look combining fear and confusion.

"I don't know what he is saying," Timothy whispered.

Shelagh looked at her son blankly, and looked over to Patrick who was clearly concentrating, thinking something through.

"He said his name is Gregor and he wants to know if you want to play with them," Patrick answered after a moment. "Do you want to?"

"Yes I think so" Timothy replied.

"In that case say 'Hallo! Mein Name ist Timothy. Ich möchte bitte spielen. Danke!'" Timothy looked at him nervously. "Go on," Patrick continued, "it's not like you to be shy!"

Timothy took a deep breath. "Ha-low, mine nar-mer isst Timothy" he began "Ick mukter bit-ter, speelen. Dan-kar."

Gregor smiled at Timothy and the two boys ran over to where the rest of the group were waiting to resume their game. Shelagh and Patrick watched the boys playing for a few minutes, before Shelagh noticed that there were tears in the corners of Patrick's eyes. She took his hand and said.

"Are you alright?"

Patrick looked at her and smiled. "All the time I was in Europe last time, England and Germany were enemies, fighting against each other. Killing each other! But now," he paused and returned to watching the game, "there is peace, a peace which enables scenes like this to occur. This is the peace we fought for, played out before my eyes. And it's beautiful."

Shelagh continued to stroke his hand.

"This trip was designed to help heal the wounds of my past" Patrick continued, a solitary tear meandering down his cheek. Shelagh wiped it away with the back of her hand. "I have felt those wounds begin to heal, and this," he waved an arm towards the game, "this is an ideal remedy."

"GOAL!" Patrick and Shelagh's attention was suddenly turned back to the game, where Timothy was running away from the makeshift goalposts, celebrating as though he had scored the winning goal in the FA Cup final. His new friends ran after him, cheering and patting him on the back. Patrick and Shelagh joined in the applause.

"Well done Timothy!" Shelagh called.

Patrick felt his wife's arm curl round his back.

"I'm glad you're beginning to feel better."

He kissed the top of Shelagh's head. He stared wistfully back towards the game, and then out into the forest behind the boys.

"There are some things which I still need to face, fears I need to confront, but I'm, on the right road, now."

"You've always been on the right road darling," Shelagh said, a small smile curling on her lips, "but just occasionally you have stalled along the route. But now you are coasting, coasting towards your destination."

Patrick tried desperately to find words to express how he felt about what Shelagh had said, but, try as he might, he could not form a sentence. He looked into her eyes, and knew that she understood.

"YES!"

Timothy had scored another goal.

"Both of us seem to be on target today." Patrick thought, watching his son bound around the street, "but I just need to hit the back of the net."


	14. Chapter 14

After spending a lazy Sunday relaxing at the campsite and in the hamlet, the Turner's were up early the next morning. After breakfast they packed up the tent and headed on the main road east out of the Black Forest.

"Where are we going now?" Shelagh asked.

"Do you remember that list of beautiful things you said we could see whilst we were in West Germany?"

"Yes."

"What have we not seen yet?"

Patrick watched Shelagh mentally tick things off before she replied,

"Lakes!"

"Exactly," Patrick said, "so I think we'll spend a few days on the shores of Lake Constance, if that's alright."

They arrived at the lake in the early afternoon and pitched the tent on the shoreline. Whilst they ate lunch they admired their new surroundings. The deep-blue water stretched out as far as the horizon, woodland and mountains surrounded it and the colourful splashes of towns dotted its edge. It was a hot afternoon and the air was humid and unpleasantly sticky. Although in the shade, Timothy had taken his shirt off and Patrick had found himself loosening far more buttons than he would usually deem appropriate. He then suddenly exclaimed.

"Let's go for a swim."

He looked straight at Timothy, then at the lake, and the two of them suddenly began throwing their clothes off, and in just their underpants, ran to the bank and dived into the water. They both momentarily disappeared, before resurfacing coughing and spluttering. The water was icy cold, but so refreshing in the heat of the day. They splashed and kicked water at each other and then swam back towards the bank, noticing only then that Shelagh had not joined them in the lake.

"Come on in Mum," Timothy called, "it's so cool and refreshing."

"Honestly, you'll feel so much better," Patrick added.

Shelagh did not move, nor did she know what to say. Patrick swam right up to the bank and asked.

"Is everything alright?"

"I can't swim Patrick," she replied blankly.

"It's not still your…" he began.

"No, no," Shelagh interrupted him, "I just never learnt how to."

"Well I better help you learn then," Patrick said getting to his feet, and holding his hand out, "you've helped me in so many ways on this trip, here's one way I can repay you."

"But I don't have anything to swim in," Shelagh began to protest, before Patrick interjected,

"If you're not comfortable in just your underwear, put that shirt on," he said pointing to the one he had thrown off moments earlier,"I spilt lunch on it."

With a little reluctance, Shelagh slipped off her dress and unbuckled her sandals. Thinking Patrick's shirt would weigh her down and make her sink, she ignored it, and stood at the water's edge in her underwear. Patrick could tell she was nervous and felt exposed, but he could not take his eyes off her, all her delicate contours formed a picture far more perfect than any landscape could offer.

"It's alright, I'm here, trust me," he said. "You can do it Mum," Timothy chirped encouragingly. Patrick and Timothy watched as Shelagh took a deep breath and stepped into the lake. She moved towards them, then suddenly disappeared. She came up coughing and spluttering, her arms flailing and her legs kicking in wild panic. Patrick swam to her side and held her to him. She wrapped herself around him.

"Sssssssh," he said, "I've got you."

"I got scared," she whimpered, "the water was deeper than I thought."

"Timothy and I are going to help you," he said letting go of her so that he was just holding her hand. He saw a flash of fear across her face, "tread water, um, imagine you're riding your midwife's bike again. That will keep you afloat."

Shelagh began treading water and with great delight found that she was not sinking.

"Now try kicking your legs behind you and moving your arms, like this," Patrick said, miming a breast stroke, "and try moving towards me." He backed away, watching her movements, her rhythm was not perfect but she was able to move towards him.

"That's it Mum," Timothy said, swimming alongside her.

Suddenly she lost her concentration, her rhythm faltered and she began to sink again. Patrick pulled her back up to the surface. She held onto him, he felt her trembling against him.

"Well done," Patrick said, stroking the back of her head, "you're so brave, I'm proud of you."

"Can I get out?" Shelagh asked with a slight waver in her voice, "I think I've had enough swimming for today."

"Come on then."

Patrick fumbling for Shelagh's knees under the water before picking her up and carrying her back to the bank. He put her down gently on the blanket and went into the tent to find a towel, which he wrapped around her delicate shoulders, then kissed her wet hair, before jumping back into the lake and swimming over to Timothy.

The humidity of the day exploded that night into a violent thunderstorm. A strong wind whipped around the lake, shaking the canvas walls of the tent. Timothy had opened the tent flap to watch the lightning, but he had been forced to shut it again as the rain began pouring in. The thunder rolled round and round for hours, keeping them all awake. Patrick hated thunderstorms; the noise conjured up unpleasant memories. He was aware how he curled himself closer into Shelagh with every clap. The noise also frightened the baby and she would not settle, despite both Patrick and Shelagh's best efforts. It was the early hours of the morning before they were able to finally fall asleep.

They spent another two days beside Lake Constance. Patrick and Timothy had continued to teach Shelagh how to swim, and by Wednesday afternoon she was confident enough to swim a few metres out from the bank by herself. That morning Patrick had met a group of fisherman and persuaded them to take him and Timothy out on their boat. They returned triumphantly several hours later holding several large trout, which were swiftly dispatched to the campfire.

Their drive into Austria the next morning was one of the most beautiful Patrick had ever made. The road followed the lake around, gliding its way between water and mountain. After crossing the Austrian border, their road began to climb, higher and higher into the mountains. By the time they made camp for the night just west of Innsbruck they were high enough to see the snow on the tallest peaks above them.

They spent two full days exploring the Tyrol, driving, camping and walking in the most spectacular scenery they had never seen. Patrick found he could finally see the true beauty of these mountains, knowing now that there would never be anyone with a gun waiting to ambush him from behind a rock or from a high vantage point. Their final day was spent high up on a mountainside. The fields of the foothills had begun to peter out, slowly being replaced by Alpine plants and rocks, and the snow above them now so close it almost seemed touchable. The peace was almost unreal and they barely saw another soul that whole day.

That night after the children were asleep Patrick and Shelagh lay side by side on the blanket outside the tent, staring into the heavens. It was a beautiful night, the clear, moonlight sky was filled with more stars than either of them had ever seen, and despite their elevation, it was pleasantly mild. They had talked and shared a bottle of wine, and had started a box of truffles which they had bought in Bruges. But Patrick felt a longing for something else, something more. He rolled on his side and looked at Shelagh. She propped herself up, resting her weight on her arms. "

Nights as beautiful as this one make me want to do such beautiful things," Patrick murmured.

He gently placed another truffle into Shelagh's mouth with one hand, and then it found its way down her thigh.

"Patrick," Shelagh said. Her voice was muffled from the chocolate melting across her tongue, but she knew exactly what her husband was implying, "we can't, not in the tent, we'll wake the children."

Patrick's free hand found its way round the back of her neck and into her hair. He rolled closer to her and began to kiss her.

"Now Mrs. Turner, who said anything about being in the tent?" he whispered between kisses.

He suddenly felt Shelagh pull away.

"We can't do that out here," Shelagh said in a hushed whisper, "what if, you know, we get, caught? What if somebody sees us?"

Patrick moved closer to her, and before she could move, wrapped his arms round her, pulled her onto his lap and kissed her right ear.

"Shelagh, my darling, my angel, we are in a field high in the Alps, it is dark and we are miles from the nearest house, when was the last time you saw someone whose surname isn't Turner?" His kisses moved down her neck, across her shoulders.

"This morning," she gasped as Patrick nipped her collarbone, "but."

"Then there is nothing to worry about is there," Patrick replied mischievously, "be bold, Shelagh, like I know you can be, be my bold girl tonight."

Suddenly, and without any warning, Shelagh span round on his lap, placing one knee either side of his pelvis, pushed him onto his back and pounced on him. Her soft hands met his stubbled cheeks and she kissed him, her tongue flickering like wildfire. Patrick lay there, stunned.

"Is that what the Doctor ordered?" she said cheekily when she broke the embrace.

"Oh, yes, you foxy little…"

Unable to finish his sentence, Patrick threw off his shirt and trousers, and began to undo her dress. He pulled it up over the her hips, past her waist, over her shoulders, and then over her head, discarding it in the vague direction of his shirt and trousers. He rolled them both over so that he was lying on top of her. He reached round her back and unhooked her bra, disposing of it in similar fashion. With these barriers removed, Patrick's hands began their journey across his wife's body. Her soft hair, her gently sloping cheekbones, her neat rounded breasts, her delicate ribcage, the softness of her stomach, the flair of her hips, nothing remained unexplored. Her hands roamed his neck and chest, she could not stop them.

Patrick felt a towering strength rise from his core. He reached for Shelagh's knickers, sliding them down past her knees, from where she shook them the rest of the way. He then removed the last barrier to them, and felt Shelagh part beneath him. She felt soft and wet against him, they both gasped as they met. Shelagh let out a moan of pleasure as he filled her, a sensual and beautiful sound which Patrick now knew so well and had grown to love. He rocked his hips towards her, filling her completely. He stifled her gasp with his lips. Her arms found their way right round him, drawing him closer. He felt her hips begin to mirror his, their movements in perfect synchronicity.

And then he felt it. Like a bolt of lightning in his core. Euphoria enveloped him, he felt as he had never felt before. Visions of paradise flashed through his mind, he had never experienced such ecstasy.

"Oh Shelagh, oh, my, oh"

"Patrick, I, I"

For a moment they were the only people in his world, and the beauty of their love, their actions, the only thing, the only emotion, the only feeling in that world. For that moment, nothing else mattered, no other past, present or future hurt, pain or memory mattered to him now. This is what he lived for, the thing he would die for, love. A sweet, and perfect, love.

"Oh Shelagh," he gasped, his breath ragged, as they finally parted, "thank you, thank you for, showing me, heaven."

"Heaven?" she replied, equally breathless and slightly perplexed.

"Heaven always seems a perfect place in stories, a paradise, were there is no evil, only beauty. That, that is what I see, what I feel, when I'm with you. When I'm with you, evil does not exist, it cannot exist. You're my world, and my heaven, and I'm thankful for you every day."

"Patrick, I, I don't know what to say."

"You do not need to say anything my love, just let me kiss you and carry you to bed."

"I could not refuse such a request, Doctor Turner."


	15. Chapter 15

Patrick and Shelagh awoke the next morning both still buzzing from the previous night's event. They had fallen asleep curled up together; Patrick's last memory before drifting off was the beautiful scent of his wife's hair in which he had buried his face. As he lay there a thought occurred to him.

"Shelagh," he whispered.

"Yes darling," she yawned sleepily.

"We left all our clothes outside last night."

They looked at each other, their eyes widening in panic. They crawled towards the opening of the tent, and pulled the flap apart. They looked out and, simultaneously, their jaws dropped at the sight that greeted them.

Timothy was stood outside in his pyjamas with an armful of clothes. Patrick and Shelagh gasped as they recognised them as the ones that they had worn the previous evening. Timothy's expression was a picture, part thoughtfulness, part bewilderment, part unease and just a hint of amusement. Patrick saw Shelagh flush scarlet as she noticed her lacy lingerie draped casually over their son's arm.

"I went to the loo," Timothy began, "and on the way back I noticed that these were all over the place, so I thought I'd better pick them up before anyone saw them."

Desperately trying to find an explanation for the situation, Patrick said, "they must have blown off the washing line," indicating the length of rope strung between the tent and the fence where some nappies and several shirts billowed in the breeze, "it got a bit wild out here last night."

He let out an inner groan when he realised what he had said. He begged that Timothy was naïve enough to think he was talking about the weather.

"Well, that's funny," Timothy replied, a devious, verging on omniscient tone to his voice, "because there are no gaps on the washing line."

Patrick felt his stomach lurch. He could not look at Shelagh; he knew that she would be absolutely mortified.

"And," Timothy continued, "I'm sure these were the clothes you wore last night, and I can't imagine you would want to do washing in the dark, not" he kicked something with his right foot, and it clinked "with wine and truffles anyway."

Both Patrick and Shelagh let out audible gasps.

"Tim," Patrick began, "we, um, er."

Shelagh continued, "what your father is trying to say is, well, we." "

It's alright," Timothy said kindly, his parent's obvious embarrassment softening his manner, "I know what," he paused, not daring to look at his parents "couples, who love each other, do, in the dark. I mean, well," it was Timothy's turn to go red, "you love each other, and I guess, stuff, happens, though" he started giggling, "maybe you should remember to tidy up after yourselves next time," and threw the armful of clothes at his parents.

Patrick and Shelagh could not help laughing at Timothy. Patrick, suddenly aware that his son was not as naïve as he thought, was curious as to where he had gained his knowledge. One hunch crossed his mind.

"You haven't been talking to Nurse Franklin have you?"

"Don't be silly Dad, the nurses only talk about men when they are in their rooms," Timothy said far too quickly, "I haven't been in Trixie, I mean, Nurse Franklin's room," he hastily added.

"I should hope not!" Shelagh exclaimed. "And that's not strictly true. They talk about them in the kitchen late at night when the Nun's aren't around."

"And how do you know that?" Patrick half gasped, half sniggered.

"Um, well, I, only heard them once, when Chummy and Peter were first courting. We sat up and waited to hear about their date."

"We?" Patrick enquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Jenny, Cynthia and Trixie, and well, I was, curious. Chummy told us everything, and then that Peter had invited her to a dance, and they all arranged to go." Her voice dropped. "Oh how I wanted to go too. They all looked so lovely that night in their beautiful dresses, their hair all lacquered and their faces made-up, I wanted nothing more than to be joining them, to own dresses like those."

"Really? You've never told me that."

"That was the night I first began to question what I truly wanted in my life," she said quieter still.

"Oh, Shelagh."

"Oh please, you are so soppy," Timothy giggled, rolling his eyes, "anyway, returning to your question Dad, it wasn't Nurse Franklin who told me, it was Sister Julienne, after your wedding, when I stayed the night with her.

Patrick and Shelagh gave each other a sideways glance, and then looked back at Timothy.

"She came to say goodnight and she sat with me for a while. We had hot chocolate and she made sure I was happy and settled. I asked her why you two were going back to the house by yourselves and I had to stay with her. I wondered why we had to wait another day to be a family, together, and, well, she, explained, why you needed to be alone that night. She said it was better that I found out from her, rather than the boys at school. It's alright," he continued after seeing the looks of concern on his parent's faces, "I understood that that was what had to happen. And," he put an arm round each of them, "you've both more than made up for that wait since. I love you both so much."

Patrick and Shelagh hugged and kissed Timothy. He wriggled away after a moment before saying.

"Wasn't it a bit cold out here last night?"

"Tim!"

After lunch they packed up the car and headed for the Italian border. Whilst Shelagh and Timothy were talkative throughout the journey, excited about where they were heading next, Patrick barely spoke. His mind was troubled, painful memories were beginning to resurface again, he knew he was getting closer to the place where he was at his lowest, the place which broke him with such devastating force. After the weeks spent relaxing and enjoying himself, crossing into Italy that afternoon brought him abruptly back to reality, back to the true purpose of the trip.

They left the Alps behind and set up camp for the night north of Venice. Patrick still had barely spoken to any of his family, and he was aware that Shelagh had noticed that all was not well. After tea he had sat smoking a little way away from the tent, staring into the distance, his thoughts a long way from his current time and place. He knew he would have to tell her soon. She knew that he had served in Italy, as his colleague Frank had acted as his referee for the adoption agency. And she knew that he had ended up being treated for War Neurosis at Northfield. He needed to fill in the gap in his wife's knowledge, the last of the secrets of his past.

"Patrick." His wife's gentle voice brought him back to the present. She was stood a little way off, rocking their daughter.

"Is everything alright?"

"We are getting close, geographically, to a difficult place in my past. However I am not yet ready, mentally, to, to…"

His voice trailed off. He balled his hands into fists. His lip trembled. His breathing became shallow. He felt Shelagh put the baby into his arms, and then wrap herself around him. Both his girls felt soft and warm against him, but despite their contact, there was a dark, cold feeling in his heart.

"What do you want to do Patrick?"

"I want to run, I want to run as fast as I can and not stop until I am safe. But, but…"

He began to cry, tears running down his cheeks. He felt Shelagh's white handkerchief wipe them away.

"You've come so far, we all have," she said gently. "All of us have learnt so much about each other, things that will help as all to grow closer to each other, to understand each other, to be a family. We can't give up now."

"I, I know, but I'm so frightened."

He hugged his daughter to him. He cast his mind back to the night with her on the sofa. The icy coldness inside him was thawing slightly. Shelagh's head had found his shoulder.

"How far away are we, geographically?"

"A couple of hours I would think."

"Do you need another good day?"

"I doubt waiting another day will make it any easier, but it can't make it any harder. Perhaps I want, rather than need a good day," he turned to Shelagh, "is there somewhere you want to go?"

Shelagh looked at Patrick shyly. "Well, I know this is your trip, but I've always thought that, Venice, would be a rather lovely place to go, and we're not too far away are we?

"No, it's not far. Hmmm, Venice, isn't it supposed to be very romantic?"

Patrick looked round at Shelagh, and saw a pink tinge rising in her cheeks. Her eyes left his gaze.

"There's nothing wrong with being romantic, Shelagh," her eyes met his, "if you would like to go to Venice, then I'll take you. I want to take you; you've been everywhere I've asked you, it's the least you deserve."

"And then we'll go, the day after, to wherever you need to go. No excuses."

"There will be no excuses, I'm not giving up now, I can't, can I?"

"No Patrick."


	16. Chapter 16

The closer they got to Venice the next morning, the more excited Shelagh became. Her glee was infectious and Patrick could not help sharing her joy.

Unable to drive all the way, they found a small hotel on the mainland, and leaving the car, took a boat towards the heart of the city. The boat glided down a series of canals, winding its way through the tall buildings. As they entered the Grand Canal, the city seemed to open out in front of them.

"Oh Patrick," Shelagh said dreamily, staring all around her, "isn't it lovely, it's beautiful, it's…"

"Rather romantic."

"Yes," she giggled, "Patrick, I was wondering, whether you would like to go out, just the two of us, for dinner, tonight?"

"Are you asking me out on a date Mrs. Turner?"

"Well, I, I, yes," she said, stressing the final word with an almost uncharacteristic air of confidence, "I mean," she continued in her more usual manner, "when we were courting either you took me out, or I came to the house, I never took you anywhere. I want to make that up to you, and this seems as good a time and place."

Patrick took his wife's hand and pressed his lips gently to it.

"I would be honoured."

The disembarked near the Rialto Bridge and wandered through the rows of shops towards the Piazza San Marco. The contents of one of the shop's window suddenly gave Patrick an idea. He just needed to find an excuse to go back, to slip away unnoticed.

After crossing the Piazza San Marco, they entered St Mark's Basilica. The interior of the church with its fine decoration and golden mosaics sparkled in the late summer sunshine. They continued to wander round, and soon Patrick was presented with an opportunity to escape back to the Rialto Bridge. Shelagh and Timothy said that they wanted to climb up into the church's four choir lofts, so Patrick said that he would take the baby and wait for them in the church. He watched them disappear then headed out of the church back into the Piazza. Moving as quickly as he could, he found the boutique where he had seen what he wanted. Finding the right sizes, he purchased them and asked for them to be delivered to their hotel that afternoon. He then rushed back to St Mark's, hoping that his absence had not been noticed. He got to the main door and saw Shelagh and Timothy heading towards him.

"Where did you go?" Shelagh said, a flustered tone to her voice "we've been looking everywhere for you."

"Sorry, I needed a breath of fresh air, so we went for a walk," he lied.

After a lazy lunch of bruschetta, prosciutto, cheeses and salad, they took a gondola ride back to the hotel. On the way back Patrick and Shelagh explained to Timothy that they were going to be going out together that evening and that they trusted him to look after himself and his sister while they were gone.

"What about my dinner?" Timothy asked.

"You can have these," Patrick said handing him a few lira, "and you can order something at the hotel."

Timothy looked down at his sister, who was snuggled half-asleep in his arms. "And what happens if she starts crying?"

"You know what to do," Shelagh said, "I've watched you with her lots of times."

"But you've always been there Mum."

"And I've seen enough to completely trust you Tim. I'll make sure she is fed and settled before we go, hopefully she will stay asleep. Have confidence in yourself."

"Alright then," he hesitantly agreed.

Later that evening, Patrick and Shelagh were getting ready to go out. Patrick was wearing a white shirt, dark trousers and the one and only tie he had brought, but Shelagh was struggling to find something she considered appropriate. She rummaged through the rucksack, trying to find something that was not too casual or crumpled. Patrick stood watching her, before saying.

"Shelagh, these are for you, to wear tonight." He reached under the bed and handed Shelagh a large bag, a designer boutique's name printed across it that he had hidden there when they arrived back at the hotel.

"Patrick, what's…" she began, but he interrupted her.

"As you know, I'm not very good at picking colours, so I thought that I would be safe with these." Shelagh opened the bag, and gasped at its contents. Patrick smiled at the look on her face, her eyes widened and sparkled. She pulled out a black satin dress, and held it out in front of her. It had neat capped sleeves and a rounded neckline. It was nipped in at the waist, and then flared out gently to the hem. She then pulled out a pair of black leather shoes, with a delicate heel and little bows on the uppers.

"Do you like them?" Patrick asked.

"They're, they're beautiful, but why and when…"

"When I went for that walk. And because, I love you, Shelagh, and you told me the other day that you always wanted a beautiful dress, like the ones the other girls went dancing in. Well, here you go, here's that beautiful dress, your beautiful dress," he put his hands on her waist, "why don't you try it on?"

Shelagh kissed Patrick's nose, then began to undo the zip of her day dress. Letting it slip to the floor, she put the black satin one over her head. Before she could do it herself, Patrick did up the zip, so eager he was to see her transformed. It fitted her perfectly, finished several inches above her knees and the neckline skimmed her cleavage, showing enough to be alluring yet remaining modest. She slipped on her new shoes. The heels were higher and thinner than she usually wore, she wobbled a little on them at first, but like the dress, they fitted perfectly.

"There's just one thing this ensemble needs," Patrick said. He reached out and unpinned Shelagh's hair, teasing it out with his fingers, draping it across her shoulders. "You look breathtaking, the most beautiful woman in the world." he finished.

He watched her staring at herself in the mirror, running her hands over her waist, checking the length at the back, adjusting the front so that she was comfortable. Noticing him watching her she turned round and said,

"Thank you Patrick for making me feel so special."

He kissed her neck, and then said, "Now, I think you were taking me on a date."

They made their way back to the old part of town, and a restaurant on the water's edge which they had spotted earlier in the day. They took their seats at a table in a quiet corner by the window. There were tall, thin candles on the tables, the flickering lights mirroring the movement of water outside. The waiter asked, in English, what they would like to drink. Before Patrick could say anything, Shelagh said.

"Could we have a bottle of Prosecco, please, and some water."

"Prosecco!" Patrick said grinning, "Are we celebrating something Mrs. Turner?" he teased.

"I suppose you could say that we are celebrating," she said, her blue eyes staring into his, "we're celebrating our love, our faith and trust in each other, the journey we have been on, both this adventure, and the adventure of our relationship, and the beauty of it all. I think all that is worthy of a bottle of something bubbly, don't you think?"

"You always know exactly what to say," Patrick smiled, his wife's words warming his heart.

"And as this is the first time I've ever taken you out, I want us to have the best of everything."

The waiter returned with a heavily laden tray. He placed the bottle, jug and glasses on the table and asked if they were ready to order starters.

"Uno minuto, per favore," Patrick replied.

"Prego!"

"Exactly how many foreign languages do you speak?" Shelagh asked after the waiter left.

"None fluently," Patrick replied, "I've just picked bits of French, German and Italian up over the years. Now let's open this bottle!"

He picked the Prosecco up out of the ice bucket, popped the cork, and poured first into Shelagh's glass and then into his own. Shelagh raised her glass and said.

"To us!"

"To us!"

They took sips of their Prosecco, and laughed at the sensations in their mouths caused by the bubbles.

"Oooh that's really nice," Shelagh giggled, taking another mouthful.

"Good choice," Patrick agreed, "now, let's see what's on this menu."

The waiter returned and Patrick chose gnocchi followed by sardines, polenta, and grilled vegetables whilst Shelagh decided to try Carpaccio of beef followed by mushroom ravioli in cream sauce. The starters arrived just as Shelagh began to pour each of them another glass of Prosecco.

"Bon appétit!" she said. Patrick giggled at her.

"Wrong country my dear, you mean buon appetito!"

"Shush, show off!"

They began to eat, and both agreed that they had made good choices. Patrick's gnocchi were feather-light and the sauce rich and buttery and Shelagh's Carpaccio melted in her mouth.

"Do you want to try one?" Patrick asked, pointing at his bowl.

"If that is alright?" she replied, but before she could move her fork towards his bowl, he had picked one up on the prongs of his own fork and began moving it towards her. Instinctively she opened her lips and felt prongs resting on her tongue and the potato dumpling warming the inside of her mouth. Patrick's eyes met hers as he removed his fork.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"That was wonderful," she replied, with such wistfulness to her voice that Patrick wondered whether she was just talking about the gnocchi.

Their starter plates were cleared and they returned their attentions to each other.

"I don't think I will ever be able to thank you enough for this dress," Shelagh said.

"It is a small token of my gratitude that you are my wife, my beautiful, compassionate, wonderful, selfless wife, who has allowed her husband to drag her and her children half way across Europe, with very little complaint, not knowing where she's going or even where she's going to be eating and sleeping each night. I could buy you every beautiful dress in London, Paris and Milan and I still would want to thank you more."

"Patrick, if you needed me to, I would go to the end of the earth with you. I know I was not happy about this trip when you first suggested it, but now I am so glad that we are seeing it through. The more I learn of you, the more I love you."

"Really?"

"Yes of course." She leant across the table, cupped his chin in her hands and kissed him. "That much," she said.

The waiter arrived with their main courses, and topped up their Prosecco flutes. They began to eat.

"I didn't think I could ever love you more than I did when we left London," Patrick continued once they were alone again, "but every day since, I too have learnt more of you, and yes, my love for you has grown. My love for all three of you has grown."

"We were always a family, but now, I feel that we are so much closer. I feel I know Timothy so much better too, how intelligent, astute and caring he is. I was aware he had all of those characteristics, but not to the extent that he has shown them, towards us both. He really is a wonderful son."

She paused for a moment, and when she noticed that Patrick was watching her said "How's your fish?"

"That was a subtle change of subject," Patrick sniggered, "it's lovely and really fresh, how's yours."

"Fantastic, try some," Shelagh replied, placing a ravioli delicately into Patrick's mouth as he had done with the gnocchi earlier.

"Yes, that was fantastic," he replied with an air of wistfulness almost as pronounced as his wife's.

When the waiter had asked them if they wanted pudding, they decided that they could probably only eat half one each, so agreed to share a Tiramisu. Almost unaware of what they were doing, they spooned the coffee-flavoured concoction into each other's mouths, their eyes unable to tear themselves away from their opposite pair.

Shelagh paid the bill and then her and Patrick left the restaurant and walked along the canal side arm in arm. They began to cross the Ponte degli Scalzi when from a café in front of them the sound of a pair of violinists began to drift across the canal, a lilting waltz floating through the night. They stopped at the apex of the empty bridge, their eyes meeting.

"I know it's not Jim Reeves," Shelagh began "but…"

She took Patrick's hand in hers and placed the other on his shoulder, his spare hand found the small of her back. They waltzed round the bridge, and the longer the violinists played the more blissfully unaware of anything else in the world they became. For that moment was just for them, them, their love and their devotion to each other. Safe in each other's embrace, their movements as one, the strength of their love in visual form. Only when the violinists stopped and took their applause did they return to earth. Patrick held Shelagh tightly to him.

"You always said you wanted to go dancing in a beautiful dress."

"And I always wanted to take a gentleman out for a romantic dinner," Shelagh replied, "it seems that two more of my dreams came true tonight."

They arrived back at the hotel to find Timothy sat up waiting for them. He was wearing his pyjamas and looked very tired.

"Did you have a lovely time?" he asked.

"Yes we did," Shelagh replied, "were you both alright?"

"We were both…" he yawned, "…tickerty boo." He pointed to where his sister was still fast asleep.

"I think it is bedtime for you young man," Patrick said, "thank you for looking after her while we were out."

"Goodnight Mum and Dad," Timothy said hugging them both and getting into bed.

"Goodnight son" they said together.

Patrick and Shelagh climbed into bed and snuggled together.

"Thank you for today," Patrick said.

"No, thank you Patrick," Shelagh replied, "this has been a perfect day."

"I hope that nothing will ever happen to change that."

"Nothing will Patrick, whatever happens tomorrow or indeed any day, nothing will ever change what happened today, nothing."

"I do hope so. I really do"


	17. Chapter 17

Patrick lay awake for several hours the next morning before Shelagh stirred beside him. The joy of the previous night seemed to have prevented nightmares plaguing him as he slept, but now he was awake, now that the day he had been fearing the most had dawned, all thoughts of joy had left him. A dark cloud had entered his soul, towering menacingly as a storm cell waiting to unleash its fury. He knew he had to, he had promised himself and Shelagh that he would go, today. Yet, an inner conflict stilled brewed, his rational heart whispering yes, his erratic mind screaming no.

He could barely eat at breakfast, his stomach churned like a centrifuge. He forced down his coffee, and picked at the rolls and fruit, but each mouthful made him feel ever more nauseous. His hands shook so much they could barely hold his cup. He knew both his wife and son had noticed the state he was in, and was thankful that neither of them had asked any more pressing questions than "how did you sleep?" and "could you pass the butter?"

A single tear rolled down Patrick's nose as they drove out of Venice that morning, a tear which spoke of joyful reminiscence and of fearful foreboding. They travelled south for over an hour in complete silence, Patrick unable to say anything, Shelagh and Timothy not daring to.

Patrick pulled the car over outside what looked like a disused airfield. A twenty foot high fence, crowned with rusty razor wire, encircled a cluster of dilapidated clapperboard buildings. Long-abandoned scrap stood propped up against the tired buildings. Potholed, overgrown tarmac carpeted the whole area, contributing further to its bleak appearance. Even the brightest of Mediterranean summer days could not brighten the gloom of this place. He got out of the car and stood against the fence, his fingers encircling the wire mesh, his nose almost pressing against it, his eyes staring far into the distance. He began to cry, his whole body shook. So little of how he remembered the base remained, but enough still stood to invoke both the pain he had seen and that he himself had suffered.

"The entrance is padlocked, there's no way…" Shelagh began, but stopped when she saw Patrick's expression. His face was ghostly white, deathly white, his umber-brown eyes, chasm-like, entrances to the dark depths of his troubled mind.

The touch of two hands on his back sent violent shivers through his body. Without letting go of the fence, he glanced round to see his wife and children at his side. He felt Shelagh's hand move to his shoulder and Timothy's slide round his waist.

"What happened here?" Shelagh said consolingly, her delicate fingers caressing her husband's shoulder. Patrick could not bring himself to answer, his head rested on the wire fence, his hands turned white from gripping it, his sobbing became ever more violent. He screwed his eyes shut, hoping to dam the tears that gushed from them. Shelagh did not know how to react, what to do. She could not bear to see her husband like this and she tried desperately to hold back her own tears.

Patrick felt a small, soft hand begin to prise his fingers off the metal fence. Timothy took his father's hand and led him away from the fence. He guided him across the road and towards a wide grass verge, dotted with daisies and clover, and partially shaded by a large hedge. Shelagh and the baby followed them. After helping his father down onto the grass, Timothy sat next to him, looking back to where they came from to see how much, or as he hoped, how little, he could see of the base. Satisfied that they were far enough away, Timothy said.

"Dad, it's safe over here."

He paused when he saw his father flinch and ball his hands into fists. Timothy took out his own polka-dot handkerchief and wiped the beads of sweat off Patrick's increasingly furrowed brow, then the tears leaking from his eyes. He loosened one of his father's fists and held his tired, aged, hand between his small delicate ones.

"What happened here Dad?"

His son's delicate care had softened Patrick's mood, calmed his fears and warmed his heart. He motioned Timothy and Shelagh to come closer to him, and with one snuggled under each arm he began to speak.

"In April 1945, I was discharged from the army and admitted to Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital. Events which happened here led to that admission. By the time I was stationed here I had been in Europe for over three years, I had survived a German attack, journeys across occupied territories, danger became something so ubiquitous that I was almost immune to it. But the death, the constant torrent of death, that was something I could never bear. Mangled bodies, shattered bones, wounds which I could not heal. And every day the same, it was incessant, every day and every night, for years. Don't try to imagine what it was like; I don't what those thoughts to cross your minds."

Shelagh and Timothy looked across Patrick's stomach at each other. Both had tears in their eyes, and they knew they were both thinking precisely what Patrick did not want them to. They could not think anything else. Patrick continued.

"One night, Frank Higginson and I were treating two men, one in his forties, the other no more than twenty. They were so badly injured that they were barely alive, in fact, they shouldn't have been alive. But alive they were. I tried to save them, patch them up, ease their pain. But then Frank said, Frank said…"

His voice trailed off. He drew his knees up to his chin and rested his elbows on them. He rocked back and forth and put his hands over his ears, as though trying to prevent Frank's words ever reaching his ears again.

"Nothing that Doctor Higginson said can hurt you now Dad," Timothy said, rubbing his father's back soothingly.

Taking a few slow, deep breaths Patrick continued.

"Frank said that we couldn't do anything for them, and that we had to make their passing as swift as possible. I protested, I knew what he meant, and the thought of carrying it out went against every fibre of my morality. Despite all I had seen, what I had done, I couldn't do that."

"What?" Timothy asked innocently.

"Shush Timothy!" Shelagh gasped. She looked at Patrick. "You don't mean?" Her eyes met his. They were like sinkholes into his troubled soul. "No!"

"He handed me a large syringe full of morphine. 'Do it,' he said, 'You're a good Doctor, and they need your help. That's what Doctor's do, they help.' I closed my eyes as I plunged the syringe into the poor man's arm. I opened my eyes in time to see the light disappearing from his. I killed one of my patients. What sort of Doctor does that?"

He took a deep breath and looked first at Shelagh and then at Timothy. His eyes searching, questioning, so desperate for an answer, but so frightened of what it would be.

"A brave one," Shelagh began quietly, "one who did his job in the most appalling of conditions, under the most extreme of pressures, and in the most unimaginable of situations. You endured hell for so long; it takes a special kind of man who could tolerate that, a man like you." She planted a kiss on his cheek as she finished.

"Brave? How?"

"You made a very difficult decision in an extreme situation. That takes more than bravery. That takes courage, strength, devotion and care, precisely the characteristics of a very good Doctor."

"Care?"

"You eased that poor man's suffering. Unconventionally, yes, but you did not just leave him in agony to die."

"But I killed him."

"Would any care you could have given him saved him?"

"No."

"Then you didn't kill him, whoever caused his injuries in the first place killed him."

"I wish I could have seen it that way, Frank said I should, but I couldn't. He was my patient, I was his Doctor. I was supposed to care for him."

Patrick took another deep breath.

"That was the beginning of the end for me. I broke down that night, I had a nightmare so violent and so vivid that I had woken up screaming and convulsing, Frank and one of the nurses had to restrain then sedate me. I was sent forty miles away to recuperate for a few weeks. I was happy there. I escaped for a while. But as soon as I appeared better, I was sent back here again. And then everything began to slide, spiralling ever downwards into that deep pit, that desperate, dark, decrepit pit that I found myself in. I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, and I couldn't discuss my feelings without ending up a screaming, trembling wreck. A Psychiatrist was sent for and then I was left in solitary confinement for a week. That was the loneliest week of my life. Every time I heard footsteps along the corridor I would scream for help, but nobody came, nobody came."

He began to cry, his shoulders shook.

"They put you in solitary confinement," Shelagh gasped "how could they?"

"I suppose they didn't know what to do with me. Perhaps they were frightened of me, frightened of what I might do next. Mental illness was even less understood then than it is now."

"I suppose, but…" Shelagh could not continue.

"At the end of that week one of the nurses and the camp commander came round and informed me I had been discharged on medical grounds with immediate effect, and to get ready to be sent home. I was sent home, for failing to do my job, for being a failure."

"You were not a failure Patrick, you were unwell," Shelagh was sobbing now too, "please don't ever say that again." She burst into tears and threw her arms round him. Patrick comforted her, holding Shelagh to him helped him to draw strength, he knew holding her was something he could do. Timothy watched them intently.

"Dad you haven't failed anyone, ever. You didn't fail that man, or the army, or Mummy, or Mum, or me. And you certainly have not failed yourself. You are wonderful man, and I love you. And now you have faced your fears, you can only be a stronger and braver one. And Mum, the journey you've made, leaving your nun life behind, the way you have supported Dad, looking after him, makes you so brave too. You've helped each other through all that has happened, and whatever will happen next, you will get through it, I know you will. Now" he took out his handkerchief again and wiped away first Patrick's, then Shelagh's tears, "where was that place forty miles away where you were happy?"

Patrick got to his feet, pulled Shelagh and Timothy to theirs and hugged them as tightly as he could, planting kisses alternatively on his wife and children's heads. "Thank you, thank you, so much. What did I do to deserve you three?"

"You were you and you did what you did," Shelagh whispered "and none of us would have you any other way. I love you."

"And I do too!" Timothy piped up.

"I know you do. Right, I need to go, now."

He let go of them and ran back to the car. Shelagh and Timothy followed and climbed in after him.

"Is everything alright Patrick?" Shelagh asked.

"I think so," he said quietly. He started up the MG's engine. "Let's go and have a nice afternoon," and he smiled for the first time that day.

The car that had been so silent leaving Venice was full of chatter and laughter driving away from the base. Patrick's spirit was full of joy, relieved that, despite the pain of the morning's events, he had faced all but one of his past fears. He had one place left to go, but he knew he no longer had any secrets from his family. He had filled every gap, and although things were not yet completely smooth, he knew he was no longer hiding his past. A great weight, one which had crushed him for many years, suddenly floated away, melted into insignificance. And he was happy.

"This is where I was sent to recuperate," Patrick said, pulling into a backstreet of a small town later that afternoon, "oh, and it's still a boarding house," he added, looking up at the sign above the door of a tall whitewashed building with terracotta tiles, "shall we see if they have two rooms for the night?"

"If you want to Patrick," Shelagh replied.

"Yes, I was safe and happy here."

Two rooms were found, and then Patrick suggested that they went and had something for lunch, since it was now the middle of the afternoon.

"What's a pizz-er-ee-a?" Timothy asked as they approached a rustic-looking restaurant on the corner of two streets, its tri-coloured awnings billowing in the breeze.

"Pizzeria, Tim, and you'll soon see," Patrick grinned mischievously.

"Oh wow!" Timothy shouted fifteen minutes later, "Is that really my dinner being thrown about?"

Patrick had intentionally sat at a table where they could see into the pizzeria's kitchen. He remembered fondly watching the chefs here throw the pizza dough into the air, secretly hoping that they would drop it, or it would stick to the ceiling.

"Yes Tim, that's how they make the base so thin."

An enormous pizza and a bowl of ice cream each later the Turner's were full, content and very happy.

"It's been a long journey," Patrick said after a moment, "I know it's not been easy, but I think, it has been, necessary."

"I agree," Shelagh replied.

"I think that tomorrow, it will be time to head back."

"Oh, are we going home?" Timothy said looking crestfallen.

"Not immediately, there is one place left to go, one final piece of the jigsaw if you like."

Shelagh's wide-eyed gaze met Patrick's.

"Are you sure you want to go there?"

"I need to Shelagh, I need to rectify one last thing, I need to heal one last wound. I need to go to Northfield."


	18. Chapter 18

The next morning Patrick took one long, final look at the boarding house where he had spent so many happy moments, alone, and his wife and children, before driving off through the back streets and out onto the open road. It had been three and a half weeks since they had left London, and as they headed north-westwards towards the French border, Patrick knew that it was time. Time to lay to rest the final ghost of his past, and then to go home.

"Home," he thought, "what will home be like now? So much has changed. I have opened the door into my world to my wife and children. They have seen so much. And in seeing and understanding my world they had shown me so much of theirs."

The first time Patrick had made the journey from the base to Southampton it had taken nearly four days. For that time, his course was steered by another. He had stared out of an army truck's window or out of a battleship's porthole, watching the outside world go by, a battered, war-torn world, reflecting his battered, war-torn, inner world. As the miles of this, his second journey, wore on, Patrick realised how different the two journeys were. He was driving, towards somewhere he wanted to go, not being taken where he did not want to go. Central France was so beautiful in peacetime, they passed through wheat fields, not battlefields, open roads, not barricades, the beauty of the countryside was as bright as his newly liberated soul.

Patrick intentionally took indirect routes and detours through France, ensuring that their journey back to Southampton also spanned four days. They stopped regularly, had picnics in the countryside, and enjoyed early nights and long lie-ins. Those days were happy, relaxed, and rectified the memories that those other four days had left in his mind. They rolled into the harbour at Le Havre on the third evening, just as the sun was setting on the horizon, its orange glow silhouetting the town against the sea and sky.

They boarded the overnight ferry back to Southampton. As they had done a month previously, Patrick and Shelagh settled the children in the cabin, and then strolled around the deck together.

"Last time I did this journey, all I wanted was to go home, back to London, to see my loved ones. Every wave that hit the boat, every blast of the engine, every chug from the funnels, they took me one step closer to home. I thought that as soon as I got to Southampton I could jump on a train and be home in a couple of hours. But that, it turned out, was just a thought, a dream."

"What happened, Patrick?"

"As soon as I got off the boat I was met by a nurse and several soldiers. They escorted me to an armoured car. I had no idea what was going on, all I had been told in Italy was that I had been discharged on medical grounds, they mentioned nothing of being sent for treatment."

"They didn't tell you anything?" Shelagh gasped cupping her hand to her mouth.

"Not until I was in the car sandwiched on the back seat between two soldiers."

"How could they?"

"I expect for the same reason they kept me in solitary confinement, why nobody would come near me. I expect they were frightened, frightened of me, frightened of what I might do."

"Ignorance is a terrible thing," Shelagh murmured, snuggling herself under Patrick's arm, "you were the frightened one, someone should have been protecting you from the world. They shouldn't have been protecting the world from you." Her arms found their way around his middle.

"To them I was a condition, not a person. They read my label, not my name. They saw War Neurosis, not Patrick Turner. I was just one more broken soldier. Not the first, and certainly, not the last, just one bead on a very long string, one drop in a vast ocean. And the worst thing was, was that I was fully aware of what they thought, yet they believed I wasn't. I was distressed, but not oblivious. I was me, Shelagh, I was still me, but nothing I could say would convince them."

He turned round so that he could bury his face into her shoulder and began to cry, the muted, pitiful tears of a frightened child.

"It's alright," Shelagh whispered in his ear, "I'm here, with you, and I'm not frightened of you." She paused for a moment and took a deep breath. "You are Patrick Turner," she continued boldly, "my husband, our children's father, and nothing will change that. Nothing that has passed, or will ever come to pass, will stop you being you."

Patrick dried his eyes on the back of his hand and looked at Shelagh.

"Thank you my love."

Shelagh kissed his cheek in response.

"I'm worried about tomorrow Shelagh," he continued, "I don't know how I'm going to react. I don't know what returning to Northfield is going to do to me."

"It will heal you," she answered resolutely, yet gently, "now, we have a challenging day tomorrow, let's call it a night shall we?"

"Do you think this boat's bunks are any roomier than the last ones?" Patrick said, grinning mischievously.

"Hmmm" Shelagh thought for a moment, "No!"

The sky was grey and foreboding when they arrived at Southampton early the next morning; late summer was certainly making way for early autumn on the south coast. By the time they had reached the outskirts of Birmingham it had been raining for several hours and the wind was picking up.

Patrick's heart began to race as he turned the car into Tessall Lane, and by the time he stopped outside of what had been Northfield Military Psychiatric Hospital he thought it was going to burst out of his chest. A different name than the one he knew was now emblazoned across the large sign at the entrance, but the severe red brick buildings, with their grey slate roofs, tall chimneys, and whitewashed sash windows were exactly as he remembered, exactly as threatening, exactly as frightening.

"Well," Patrick puffed, desperately trying to hide his nerves, "we're here."

His wife and son's hands found their way to his shoulders, stroking them, gently, comfortingly.

"Do you want to go nearer?" Shelagh asked.

"Not really," Patrick replied, "but I need to."

"Come on then, be bold Patrick."

Patrick could not help a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

"Oh Mrs. Turner…"

"Hey you two," Timothy piped up, "this is not the time for squashy stuff. Come on Dad," he said, pulling on his coat and opening the car door, "one final challenge."

When they got out of the car, Shelagh put the baby sling around Patrick and snuggled the little girl into her father's chest. She and Timothy then took one of Patrick's hands each, and they walked closer to the imposing red-brick edifice together. As they walked Patrick felt a growing warmth and confidence. He had never felt closer to his family, physically or emotionally. Nor did he ever feel closer to achieving the happiness and peace he had been craving for fifteen years. But fear was still his overriding emotion. Fear of the past, fear of the present, fear of the future. At the foot of the building, Patrick stopped, and stared.

"That's the ward where I was, treated," Patrick said, letting go of Timothy's hand and pointing to a row of windows on the top floor of the building. His whole arm trembled.

"What did they do to you?" Timothy asked, taking his father's trembling hand in his again.

"The psychiatrists here tried a new method of healing mental illness, to get all the inpatients to help each other, supporting each other, like we would have done in the army. They didn't focus on individual people, individual problems. We had all seen different things, we all hurt in different ways, but we were all treated with the same pill. We weren't individuals; we were a collection, a collection of broken men, here to be patched up as well as they could be. We all tried to help each other, but I never felt as though I could heal myself." He turned to Shelagh, tears running down his cheeks, rain running off his unkempt fringe. "Perhaps that's why I could treat others, but could not treat myself."

Shelagh burst into tears.

"I'm so sorry Patrick." She buried her face in her hands, unable to look at him. Timothy flashed confused looks between his parents, not knowing what to do. He settled on patting their arms.

"It's alright Shelagh," he said kissing her rain-soaked hair, "you were not to know, I should have told you."

"I should have asked. I was so excited, I did not pick up on your reservations, I was selfish, I just sought what I wanted, I didn't think about you. I didn't let you tell me."

"But you know now. There are no secrets of my past which I've kept from you."

"And I have nothing hidden from you Patrick."

"And let us keep it that way, I think that will keep us happy."

"Are you happy now Dad?" Timothy asked.

"I will be in a minute, Tim," Patrick replied.

He wrapped his arms around Shelagh and Timothy and the four Turners cuddled together, holding each other as tightly as they could. The rain was pouring down, and a cold wind whipped around them, but the warmth of their love, the closeness of their embrace, counteracted any chill that the weather could cause.

"I have felt more healing here today than I gained from the five months I was here in 1945," Patrick said, unable to let go of his wife and children, "because I knew you wanted to help me, just me. You cared for me by caring about me. And I wanted to help myself, to treat myself. And now, I am very, very happy. The wounds of my past are healed. I am free. I'm free!"

He let go of Shelagh and Timothy and threw his arms into the air triumphantly. A Cheshire-Cat-like grin erupted across his face and, holding his daughter to him, danced around the path, splashing in puddles as he did so. His shoes and trousers ended up soggy, but he didn't care. He was happy.

The rain then suddenly started coming down even heavier than before.

"Patrick," Shelagh squeaked, "come on, let's get back to the car," and they ran back to the entrance.

Wet, cold, but happy, the Turners got back into the car and took off their wet coats, Patrick changed his socks, and they found a jumper each. Once they were a little drier, and settled, Patrick started the engine, and after taking a final look at the hospital building behind him said.

"Let's go home. I think it's time. I'm ready."

"It's been quite a journey," Shelagh said reflectively, as they pulled away, "quite an adventure."


	19. Chapter 19

After arriving home late the previous night, the Turner's all slept away most of that Sunday morning. Curled up, safe in his own bed, Patrick slept more soundly than he had in many years, his comforting dreams danced and flickered across his mind with the warmth of a log fire. He felt happy, happier than he had ever thought possible.

When he awoke, Patrick skipped downstairs and set about making something for them for brunch. He put the kettle on to make a pot of tea, and was just piling scrambled eggs and beans onto three plates when Shelagh and Timothy appeared at the kitchen door, bleary-eyed and fastening their dressing gowns.

"Brunch is served," Patrick said triumphantly and, making several trips from counter-top to table, carried the plates, cups and saucers, cutlery, a rack of toast, the milk jug, butter dish and the teapot.

"Patrick, this looks lovely," Shelagh said.

"Dad, it's not burnt!" Timothy gasped.

"Timothy, I can cook some things," Patrick replied, "and I wanted to say thank you."

"Thank you?" Shelagh questioned between mouthfuls, "what for?"

"For everything that you have done for me over the last few weeks. The whole trip has been about me, and you, my beautiful, brave family, helping me to heal my wounds. I could not have asked for better treatment, or more capable carers. Thank you. I could not have done this without you."

"It is the least we could have done Patrick."

"Shelagh, Timothy, I need to tell you something."

"What is it Dad?"

"Is everything alright Patrick?"

"Everything is more than alright, but please, listen to what I need to say." He turned to his wife.

"Shelagh, you are so beautiful, so loving, so loyal, I've always known that. But you have shown me more love and devotion these past weeks than I ever thought another person could give. I have poured out my soul and you have received every drop of it with your heart, your mind and your body."

He ignored Timothy's sniggers and the vermillion hue rising in his wife's cheeks.

"You have grown so much. You were so fearful when we left, but you found you wanted to travel, to explore," he chuckled, "didn't you?"

"Yes I suppose I did," she looked at him shyly "the longest trip I had ever done before this one was on the overnight train from Aberdeen to London when I came to start my training, and I was nervous for every second of it."

"You learnt to swim," Patrick continued, "you took me out, taking the lead, showing me what you wanted, telling me what you had longed for, for so long. I thought I had married an innocent young girl, and I didn't want to show you the real man that you had so trustfully married, I didn't want to hurt you. Now I've realised that I married a woman, a woman more than able to deal with the real me, then and now. I will never keep another secret from you, ever."

"Likewise Patrick."

"And Timothy, Timothy, Timothy, my wonderful son, I never realised before what a brilliant man you are."

"A, man," Timothy said, looked at his father with a puzzled expression on his face.

"Twelve years old you may be Tim, but you are wise, knowledgeable and astute beyond your years. And not," Patrick could not suppress a grin, "just in the things which Sister Julienne has added to your knowledge."

Timothy went as vermillion as Shelagh and looked sheepish.

"Things you said, things that you noticed, things that you did, helped me more than you can imagine. The ability to do what you did were not the actions of a boy, but those of a man, and only the most loving, caring, and brave of men at that. Yet only a child, my child, could have touched the deepest, darkest part of my heart and soul, the way that you did. Oh Timothy, I could not ask for a better son."

"You've never said anything like that to me before Dad," Timothy said.

"No, and I regret that very much. I'm sorry."

"That's alright Dad." Timothy paused. "Dad, Mum, there is something which I should have said to you, but I didn't. When I had Pollio, I felt ill for several days before I was taken to hospital, but I didn't want to ruin your wedding, so I stole pills out of Dad's medical bag. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," he whimpered, seeing the looks on his parent's faces.

"Why Tim?"

"Dad, you always told me to be independent. I thought I was being grown up by looking after myself. Ever since Mummy died I always thought I was in your way, I always felt that I was a problem. I didn't want to cause any more for you, especially not then."

"You were never a problem Tim, ever. Thank you for telling us." Patrick sighed, "You've just proved again what a man you are Tim, not all men are that brave. I want you to know you can talk to me about anything, any problems, any questions, big or small, I will always make time to listen to you."

"As will I," Shelagh said, "I'll always be here for both the men in my life."

"From this day forward, truth and trust will be central to our home," Patrick said thoughtfully.

"For better, for worse, until death us do part?" Timothy chirped, and began to giggle. Patrick and Shelagh looked at each other, and then laughed with Timothy until their sides hurt.

By the time they had cleared away after brunch and got dressed it was the early afternoon. They unloaded the last of their travelling things from the boot of the car, leaving the Cub's camping gear inside so that they could return it to the Community Centre on their way to Nonnatus House.

"We can deliver the presents and let them know that we are back safe and sound" Patrick had suggested.

Timothy carried his sister up the steps of Nonnatus House three-quarters of an hour later, and rapped his knuckles on the heavy wooden door. Patrick and Shelagh followed him, their arms full of boxes of presents. Trixie's blonde head poked out of the door, the suspicious expression on her face caused by the unannounced knocking melted at the sight of her friends.

"Greetings, one and all, long time no see!" she chirped, grinning at them, before stepping back from the doorway to let them all in, "we were beginning to wonder where you four had got to."

"We've been on an adventure, Nurse Trixie," Timothy beamed.

"Somewhere warm by the looks of you all," Trixie replied, "I am positively green with envy at how brown you are, you especially Shelagh, you look positively radiant! And the sun has made your hair go such a beautiful colour too. Oooh what have you got in those boxes?" she finished, a look of intrigue on her pretty face.

"We've bought you all some presents," Timothy said.

A look of glee further illuminated Trixie's face.

"Presents, how terribly exciting, well we're just about to have high tea, do come and join us, if you would like to?"

The Turners exchanged glances and then nodded in agreement.

"And then," Trixie continued "since everyone is here, the Noakes' included, you can give out presents. If you're quick you might get some Victoria Sandwich before Sister Monica Joan eats it all."

They followed Trixie down the long tiled corridor towards the dining room.

"Look who has turned up," Trixie said gleefully as she and the Turners entered the room.

"Trixie, your puns are diabolical!" Patsy said drawly, rolling her eyes.

"You're back!" Sister Julienne exclaimed, jumping to her feet and hugging each Turner, "do come and sit down."

Three more chairs and sets of crockery were found, and with a little shuffling, space was made at the table for the Turners. Sandwiches, scones, cakes and tea were passed around.

"So, where did you go for so long?" Sister Winifred asked.

"Yes, do tell," Sister Julienne said with a sparkle in her voice which she usually reserved for when she was curiously interrogating the young nurses or teasing Sister Monica Joan, "you had been gone so long, I was beginning to worry," she finished a little more sombrely.

"You shouldn't have worried" Shelagh said, helping herself to Swiss Roll with one hand and rocking her sleepy daughter with the other, "we were quite safe."

"Somewhere lovely and warm no doubt," said Cynthia dreamily, glancing between each Turner, "you all look so healthy and happy, you especially Doctor Turner, I mean, Patrick, you look like a new man." Cynthia was suddenly aware that the whole room was staring at her. "What I mean is, you look so refreshed, like you have been able to relax, unburden yourself, have a bit of quiet healing time," she finished.

Patrick had hung onto every word that had come from his usually shy colleague's mouth, astonished that he could be read so easily.

"We went to France, then Belgium, West Germany, the Austrian Tyrol and then finally Italy," Patrick began, "some places I had been to before, others I hadn't, but we went to places that we wanted and I think needed to see."

"Oh Cologne and Venice are both so beautiful," Shelagh said.

"And we went to a chocolate shop in Bruges," Timothy continued, "and Dad and I taught Mum to swim in Lake Constance, and we watched chefs throw pizzas around in a restaurant in Italy."

"Oh my!" Sister Julienne exclaimed, "You did get about."

"And yes, you're right Cynthia, we have all been able to relax and unburden ourselves, and I certainly feel much better in myself," Patrick finished.

"This jaunt sounds very merry," Sister Evangelina barked, "but was it really necessary to disappear off for an entire month, leaving the pregnant women of Poplar in the hands of that dozy thing Doctor Radcliffe? I'm amazed he can tell his elbow from his ar…"

"Thank you Sister!" Sister Julienne interrupted, "everyone starts somewhere. Perhaps we have got too used to your expertise, Patrick, I mean Doctor Turner."

"We are not at work, so please, call me Patrick," he said, smiling, "and thank you."

"Not at all, Patrick."

Patrick thought how to answer this question for a moment, and then remembered his own words from a few hours previously: "truth and trust will be central to our home." Nonnatus House was their second home, the Sisters and the nurses their extended family, so the same rules apply, he reasoned. He took a deep breath and began.

"The reason for our, jaunt," his brown eyes narrowed as he stared at Sister Evangelina, "was to help me. The journey we took traced, more or less, the journey I made when I was in the medical corps in the last war. I came home from that war with many wounds, wounds which I needed my family's help to heal. Our journey rectified the terrible memories which the war, and my eventual diagnosis of War Neurosis, left behind. Finally, all these years later, I have found peace, happiness and healing, thanks to the three people sat to my left," he pointed towards his wife and children, "I have finally shed those burdens."

The whole table stared at Patrick, unable to say anything. Sister Evangelina looked particularly uneasy. The silence was broken by an ethereal voice from the end of the table.

"'War,'" Sister Monica Joan began, "'is toil and trouble. Honour but an empty bubble. Never ending, still beginning. Fighting still and still destroying…'"

"Sister," Shelagh said, "please."

"Let me continue child," the elderly nun snapped. She looked straight at Patrick. "'If the world be worth thy winning, think, oh, think, it's worth enjoying.' My good man, there is a hard-won peace in the world and now one also in your soul. See the beautiful world you fought for, ignore the trouble caused by my Sister and do me the honour of passing those éclairs."

"Here you are Sister," Patrick said, passing the cake stand, "and thank you."

"I am sorry, Patrick," Sister Evangelina murmured, "I…"

"Opened my mouth before engaging my brain?" Patsy quipped, finishing the sentence for her.

The table erupted with laughter, the mood lightening instantly. Even Sister Evangelina smiled, fully aware how correct, if blunt, Patsy had been.

"Well," Patrick said, getting up from the table and grinning, "I think presents are in order," and skipped from the table back towards the boxes and from them produced an assortment of beers for Peter, Fred and Tom, Calvados for each of the nurses, wines for the nuns, "that is allowed isn't?" he asked as he handed Sister Julienne a crate of bottles, and took her girlish grin as a "yes," and more Belgian chocolates than any of them could possibly eat. "And finally, this," Patrick said, removing a slightly crumpled piece of writing paper from his top pocket, "is for you Sister Monica Joan."

He watched as her long bony hands unfurl the piece of paper and she began to read the black ink letters which everyone around the table recognised as Patrick's untidy scrawl.

"I hope I have translated it correctly, if so, and you give that to Mrs. B, the end result should be probably the best cake in the world, well certainly the best cake West Germany has to offer!"

Sister Monica Joan's grey eyes sparkled, and then she rose sedately from the table. "If you will excuse me, I will see that this is left where its presence with not go unnoticed," and then disappeared out of the door with a swish of her habit.

Patrick sat watching his friends with their presents, smiling and laughing, discussing the current location of Nonnatus House's wine glasses, and what cocktails could be made with Calvados. He felt truly happy, truly at peace, surrounded by those he loved and who loved him in return.

"This is what life is about" he thought, "happiness, peace and love."


	20. Chapter 20

Ten days later, Patrick turned his key as silently as possible in the lock of 24 Bermondsey Lane. It was just after three in the morning and he was returning from a complicated delivery on the other side of Poplar. The night had brought with it an autumnal chill and, with nothing over the lightest of his suit jackets, he was longing for the warmth of his home, and his bed in particular.

On entering the dark house, he threw his hat and jacket onto a peg in the hall, dropped his medical bag unceremoniously onto the floor and crept into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and found the cheese sandwiches and the bowl of fruit salad that he had been just about to eat when he had been called away nine hours previously. He lit a Henley and, having made a mug of Horlicks to go with it, he ravenously ate his supper. Shelagh had left the evening paper neatly folded on the table, but he was too tired to read it, all the print, aside from the bold headlines, blurred together and seemed to dance across the page.

Once he had eaten and placed his used crockery in the sink, he began to drag his exhausted body up the stairs. Half-way up, he heard a cry coming from the nursery. He accelerated spontaneously, and on reaching the landing, he stuck his head round his and Shelagh's bedroom door. His wife was fast asleep, curled up with one arm haphazardly draped across his pillow. A louder cry from the nursery made him retreat from the bedroom and towards the cot where his daughter lay. He picked his little girl up and rocked her gently.

"Shush little one, what's the matter?"

A warm, damp feeling on his lower arm soon answered his question. He fumbled around in the dark for a dry nappy.

"Let's take you downstairs," he cooed at that the little girl, "we don't want to wake Mummy and Timmy do we?"

Patrick took his daughter downstairs and changed her nappy but she was still restless in his arms. He put his finger to her mouth and his daughter's pink tongue flickered across it. Patrick grinned.

"It looks like I'm not the only one who gets hungry in the small hours."

He made up a bottle and settled down on the sofa, adjusting the cushions behind him, and stretched himself out so he filled it. He propped up his daughter on the right side of his chest, holding the bottle in his left hand and began to feed her. Despite his exhaustion, he hoped this moment would last forever.

"It's been a little while since we've done this isn't it sweetie?" he said, watching her sucking contently, "and so much has changed since then."

He kissed her forehead. "I've thanked your mother and your brother for all their help over the last few weeks, but I haven't thanked the most important person in this story yet have I? I hope you'll forgive me."

The little girl gurgled at precisely the right moment. Patrick smiled. "My daughter's timing is impeccable," he thought.

"Last time I lay on this sofa with you I was a broken man, a man plagued by the memories of his past, the wounds which he carried, too distressed and too distraught to tell anyone, even those closest to him. He was too ashamed, too wracked with guilt. He did not want his family to know him. And, it seems, there were things that they did not want him know about them. And I can't say I blame them for hiding things from me."

He hugged her tighter to him.

"Of course, you will never remember that evening we spent together, lying as we are now, your silly old Dad spilling his soul to someone who was neither listening nor capable of understanding. But that did not matter to me, what mattered was that I could gain the confidence to make the first steps along the long road which we travelled, without the fear of being judged. As much as I love your mother and brother, they were not the ones who could kick-start me along that road. Only you, the only person in my life incapable of judgement could do that. And now, thanks to that journey and the support I received along the way, I'm a very happy man. A man who has no secrets, a man whose family trusts him with all their secrets, a man who loves and is loved, a man finally free from the burdens he has been carrying, a healed man, a changed man."

She finished her feed, and Patrick lifted her over his shoulder and burped her. "Now that's better isn't it?" he said. In the absence of anything else, he wiped her mouth and chin on his shirt sleeve and laid her on his chest and planted kisses into her golden hair.

"I will never forget that night as long as I live. When you are a big girl I will tell you of what you did to help your Daddy. Then, I will tell you that I will always be here for you, I will always make time to listen to your problems, and, although I can't guarantee that I won't be an embarrassing Dad, I promise to be a good Dad I will always care for you, and Mummy and Timmy, just like you all have cared for me."

Patrick yawned and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the clock, saw it was well after four, and then looked down to his chest to see his daughter lying fast asleep. Taking care not to wake her he stood up, switched out the light and crept up the stairs to the nursery. He put her into her cot, and covered her with her blanket, tucking the ends in delicately and securely.

"And I will protect you always, ensuring that you never suffer wounds as painful as your father has experienced. It is the least that a beautiful, precious little girl like you deserves. Sweet dreams little one, your Daddy loves you so very much."

He placed one last kiss on her forehead before leaving the room, crossing the landing and entering his own bedroom. Shelagh was still draped across his side of the bed, so once he had his pyjamas on, he gently climbed in and curled up around her. Lying staring at the ceiling, Patrick reflected on the journey he had made, and those final steps which he had just completed, then, just as he was on the final cusp of sleep, whispered to the silent room.

"My wounds are healed."

* * *

**A/N **

**This story began with me wanting to write a bonding moment between Patrick and his daughter. His war experiences were the only thing I could think of that Patrick could only tell the baby, and as I wrote, the story grew until, well, you've just read it! After watching S3 E8, I particularly wanted Shelagh to help him as although they "talk" we do not see him "tell" her anything. I also find Timothy such a vibrant character and needed to further explore him through the help he gives his father. I know this has not been the easiest of reads in places, and I have certainly found parts very difficult to write, both in terms of subject matter and keeping it in Patrick's POV, so thank you for getting to the end of "Old Wounds." Please review if you have time, each one is greatly appreciated!**

**When I'm not writing FanFiction, I'm writing a Classical Archaeology PhD, and while I was writing "Old Wounds" I came across in my research the following text from Rhamnous, Greece. **

**Ἥρῳ ἰατρῷ Ἀριστομάχῳ ἀνέθηκεν **

**Inscribed sometime during the 4th century B.C., it is a dedication to a 'hero doctor' called Aristomachos. I hope you agree that this is a suitable dedication for this story:**

** Ἥρῳ ἰατρῷ Πατρικω Τυρνερω ἀνέθηκεν**


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